


Besieged Heart

by Chalybeous (Chalybeousite)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Magic, Character Death, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 264,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalybeousite/pseuds/Chalybeous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He once came charging to her rescue, like a gallant knight, saving her from certain death. And now, after all the heartaches and lies, she prays he can save her again. Just a bit of dribbling, angst-filled sappiness that’s been rattling around in my brainpan since playing Dragon Age: Inquisition. Feeling the need to write a Cullen-knight-in-shining-armor fic. Not much else to say, other than some smut later on. If you’ve read any of my other stories, ya know how I write ;D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It’s just bad luck…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I can’t believe it. Cullen? I’ve developed a fanfic crush on Cullen? *hangs head in shame* It’s just… for some reason, he kept making me writhe and whimper while I played Inquisition. I know he’s super-saturated in the fanfics, but I can’t help myself—I gotta write. So, here it is. I don’t care how many people read this dribble; the main thing for me is I HAVE to write it, get it out of my system, ya know. Thanks, Bugs, for encouraging my addiction :P  
> There will be some spoilers referenced from the game, but this is a separate story. Also, just so you know, I've taken a few liberties with the characters. Most notably, my Female Inquisitor doesn’t exactly follow the character presets of F!Trevelyan provided in game. Also, Cullen weans himself off of lyrium rather than quitting all at once. Call it creative license or writer’s prerogative or whatever. I wanted a few things different, so they’re different. *shrugs*  
> Finally, if you’ve read any of my other fics, you know I love a long story, and long chapters. I always feel I should apologize for the length, but so far no one’s ever complained. *ahem*  
> I hope you enjoy… *flourishes a little bow*

It seemed every time she woke, HE was sitting beside her.

“How long this time?” she asked, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Her throat was still a little scratchy, but at least the chills were gone. And the shakes. The aches remained however—unseen, untouchable, bone-deep wounds that silently spoke of her continuing torment. She buried every sign of the discomfort deep inside, something she was used to doing, and waited for her guest to speak.

Solas leaned back in the chair beside her bed, half a smile on his lips as his soothing voice answered, “Only for the night. I think we’re past the point where we have to worry about your health suffering from the mark. Though I’ll admit, I was taking the opportunity to study it some more, and perhaps part of me wishes you had remained sleeping so I could remain studying.” He had an impish expression to his face, like a little boy caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

She returned the smile, sitting up in the bed, her linen tunic slightly oversized on her thin frame. It was easy to let her guard down around Solas; he knew more about her than any of the others here in Haven, even though he asked the fewest questions. And most importantly, he didn’t repeat what he suspected. She felt she could trust him—at least to a certain extent. Willingly she held out her left hand, palm upwards, and said, “Of course.”

He shook his head, somewhat shyly, and stood up. “I shouldn’t. Seeker Cassandra stated she wishes to speak with you as soon as you awake. It is important.”

He watched her nod and throw the covers back, unperturbed by either the Seeker’s inconsiderate command or his presence within her bedchamber. Solas sighed and turned his back to give her some privacy as she got herself ready for the day. She was so innocent and naive about certain matters, such as a man watching her while she slept, and so fearful and distrusting in other matters, such as talking about herself or her past. Of course, it didn’t help that she had been suffering from amnesia for the past week, ever since she first awoke after the explosion at the Conclave. Still, it was an oddity, though thankfully he had been the only one who noticed such things—yet.

She was also oblivious to the danger she was in, thankfully. They purposely hadn’t told her about the attempts made against her life in those first few days after the Breach appeared. The bridge of his nose wrinkled in disgust; people—humans especially—always struck out at what they didn’t understand. As she had been the only survivor of the Breach, they blamed her for it and demanded her death in recompense.

Even now, a week after she worked so hard to stabilize the Breach, after all she’d given so willingly, he feared the threat remained. Yes, most people in Haven were now calling her the Herald of Andraste, but there were those who saw her as the Herald of the End Times, and as such feared her. Ignorant fools.

That was the problem: ignorance. It was fear of the unknown that made people lash out blindly at whatever appeared the easiest target. Unfortunately, the girl made a very easy target. She was weak physically, all too trusting and willing to believe others, and quite often clumsy—or perhaps she was unskilled. At any rate, she was in constant need of supervision, as much to keep her from accidentally tripping down a flight of stairs as to discourage would-be assassins. And Solas had pulled last night’s shift.

He heard the stifled groan behind him, the soft scramble as she raced across the room almost on her hands and knees. He turned to see her reach the chamberpot just in time. There wasn’t much for her stomach to sick up, but what was there was quickly vacated. He knelt beside her and tried to offer comfort. Briefly he thought about brushing her long hair from her face, but wisely changed his mind. There were some things he didn’t want to know, so if he was ever directly questioned, he would be able to deny knowledge without having to lie…

Ugh, he hated having to deal with people!

She had gathered her hair in one hand, on the side opposite from him. Solas supported her by the arms, feeling through the tunic her skin prickle with gooseflesh, until the nausea subsided. “Better?” he asked, solicitously.

She nodded, wiping her chin on the back of her hand, not trusting herself to open her mouth to speak.

“With the Breach stable, the mark is no longer killing you. However, your body is still recovering from the earlier effects. Give it a few more days, perhaps another week, and this too will pass.”

She nodded again, accepting his words, though she knew better. “I should get going. Mustn’t keep Cassandra waiting. Is she…” she paused to grunt, reaching across the floor to grab her boots, tugging them onto her feet. “Is she up at the chantry?” She stood, settling her feet into her boots as she looked around for her coat. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet, but not enough to warrant concern.

“Where else?” he asked, rhetorically.

She missed the inflection, swinging the thick woolen coat around to get her arms into the sleeves. “Well, there’s the practice yard; she likes to swing at the dummies.”

He refrained from smiling, knowing she hadn’t meant the joke. Seeker Cassandra often liked to ‘help’ train the new soldiers, more than a few of them sporting deep bruises and light sprains after sparring with her. “I believe the agenda for today is all business. Leliana returned during the night with the last advisor. No doubt she will want to meet you, Herald.”

She made a small face, as quickly vanished as it had been timidly made. “Please don’t call me that.” Her voice was soft, her chin tucked in as she focused on buttoning the front of her coat. Through her long brown hair, he thought he caught a glimpse of a blush across her cheeks.

“What else am I to call you?” he asked, spreading his hands wide. “You have amnesia, unable to remember your name, much less what happened to you at the Conclave. Or has that changed?”

She swallowed thickly. “No, it hasn’t. I only… well… I don’t feel like a Herald, of Andraste or anyone.”

“What is it supposed to feel like, being a Herald? Do you know? No? Then perhaps you are one.” He smiled suddenly, encouragingly, his fingers reaching out to touch her chin and lift up her face. Yes, there was the slightest embarrassment over her actions from a moment ago, painting her cheeks with pale pink. “Or perhaps you are not. Regardless, it is a name—of a sort—to call you. You can be thankful for that, at least.”

She gave him that timid smile again. “I suppose.”

Solas didn’t stare. He had studied her features enough during her initial illness, he could easily remember every blemish. Yet no matter how deeply her face was scarred, her smile always seemed to lift the marks away. That is what he focused on. “Would you like something to eat before you go?”

She shook her head, feeling her stomach cramp and twist at the mere mention of food. “No, I…” she dabbed at the sweat clinging to her upper lip. It was always worst first thing in the morning, but after she got up and started doing things, it became easier to ignore the discomfort. “I don’t think I could just yet. I’ll try later, after a little fresh air.”

“You expect to find fresh air inside that stuffy edifice?” he scoffed, referring to the chantry.

At least, she thought he was referring to the building and not the people within it. “After Cassandra’s done with me, I’ll go for a walk, maybe down to the lake. Walking seems to help,” she shrugged, “At least, it doesn’t hurt.”

He wanted to warn her not to wander too far from the village, but he didn’t want to explain why he was so cautious. Mentally he made a note to let Varric know what she was intending; he had the day’s shift. “Very well. Run along, then; I’m sure this newest advisor is anxious to meet you.”

She pulled away, ever eager to comply, ever eager to gain favor, and was out the door almost before she opened it. Solas sighed and waited for the door to close before he gathered up his things. He had been studying her through the night, making a few notes in his journal regarding the mark and her condition, and he didn’t want those notes to fall into the wrong hands, like Adan's notes nearly had. That absent-minded alchemist was more trouble than help, leaving his notes scattered all over the place.

Outside the cold air stung her lungs, the sunlight reflecting off the snow stung her eyes, and she curled in on herself to hide the discomfort. She started down the street, heading towards the steps that led to the chantry, her walk quiet and unimpeded. Few people—if any—recognized her when she walked alone or didn’t wear her armor, as she was this morning. In fact, it usually took Cassandra’s bullish and booming voice calling her “Herald” for people to even take notice of her. She was in a word: unremarkable.

That is, so long as she kept her scars hidden. Long brown hair helped with that, the lengths falling straight and boring over her shoulders and enclosing her face. And with her form hunched over crossed arms and wrapped in thick though plain clothing, she looked just like every other faceless, nameless refugee seeking shelter in Haven.

She finished the first tier of steps and was about to climb the second when she heard Varric’s voice. She had already formed a strong liking for the storyteller, and regularly sought him out, gratefully spending hours of her time distracted by his unbelievable tales. Her attraction was so deep, it caused her to lift her head up, parting the draping locks, so she could see him. He was standing next to the campfire outside his tent, talking with a man whose back was to her. Perhaps it was due in part to her fledgling curiosity, or perhaps it was due to that kernel of ‘self’ that had recently been growing within her, but impulsively she turned aside from the steps and slipped behind the tents, trying to get as close to Varric and his companion as she could without being discovered.

She inched forward, her heart pounding over her mild act of defiance—she was supposed to be meeting with Cassandra, not skulking behind tents eavesdropping on a friend. She pressed herself flat against the wall, the requisition officer’s supply tent looming above her, and listened.

“So, Curly, I see they finally finished your new armor,” Varric’s voice spoke in a lazy fashion.

The answering voice was no-nonsense, confident, a voice that commanded your loyalty and trust, while promising to deliver authority and discipline. “Don’t call me that.”

“I was only trying to pay you a compliment,” his voice was now all innocence, “The uniform looks good on you.”

“Thank you, though it’s going to take some getting used to…” The other man’s voice broke off suddenly, to fall into a heavy sigh. “I can never tell when you’re being serious, and when you’re pulling my leg.”

“I like to multitask where I can. Saves time and effort.”

“Indeed.”

Varric’s laughter was contagious, causing that timid smile to lighten her mouth, a tiny sparkle to dance in her hidden eyes.

“So, what do you think of our little Herald?” Varric asked.

“I haven’t had the pleasure yet, have I?”

The two were silent for a count of three before Varric said, “Really. I was there, Curly, when you met her last week, just outside the temple, right before she stabilized the Breach. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Er…” the other—Curly?—seemed to have to think for a few moments. She inched away from the wall, her curiosity fully engaged, though one hand remained in contact with the stone, as if touching it kept her invisible. “Wearing scout armor? Mismatched helmet too big for her? Stood behind Cassandra most of the time?”

“Hey, I scrounged that helmet for her,” Varric defended himself, and her by association. “Poor kid was already suffering amnesia, and getting her head knocked around by a bunch of darkspawn spewing out of the Breach wasn’t helping.” There was a slight pause before he pressed, “So, you do remember her.”

“I, ah, barely, yes,” ‘Curly’ responded, but after a moment there was another sigh. “Fine, not that well. I did sort of have a lot on my mind, like holding off darkspawn so you and the others could get to the Breach. Not to mention retreating the wounded to a safe distance, searching for any survivors and picking up stragglers, keeping the path clear so all of you would be able to reach Haven again…”

“All right, all right, I get it. I guess it wasn’t fair of me, expecting you to remember someone you met a week ago, and only for a few minutes. But you have been here a week, now, and you still haven’t seen her?”

“I haven’t had the time, what with trying to raise an army from scratch when all I have to work with is farm boys and milk maids.”

“Ah, come on, Curly, you love a challenge.”

There was that dreadful silence again before he said, “Stop calling me that.”

“Sure, sure,” Varric agreed, and even she could tell he had no intention of stopping. “But you’re, ah, gonna see her today, right? I hear Leliana’s back, brought that diplomat she wanted to recruit for the Inquisition.”

She felt a momentary twinge of guilt, knowing she should be there already, but finding herself unable to move from the spot.

“Yes, we’re all supposed to meet this morning up at the chantry, to start planning our strategy. As a matter of fact, I was on my way there when you stopped me for a ‘quick question’.”

“Well, don’t let me delay you, Commander.” There was the sound of snow and gravel being crunched beneath the soles of boots, as the two began walking closer, their voices increasing in volume. “Could I ask a favor, though?”

“What is it?” the Commander replied an exasperated tone.

“Tell the Herald to come see me later in the tavern, after the meeting. She likes listening to my stories, and I just remembered one this morning that I think she’ll enjoy…”

And suddenly there they were, no more than ten feet from her, passing across the opening between the tents. The Commander’s head was up, his eyes scanning the area, constantly alert. Immediately he spied her, hovering near the wall, and obviously close enough to have heard their conversation. His eyebrows drew downwards into a frown, his mouth opened—she was sure to spout some sort of reprimand—as he started for her.

She was trapped, and she knew it. A wave of emotion, uncontrollable and unlooked for, washed over her, turning her knees to jelly and her blood to ice. It had been a long time since she felt fear, felt an overwhelming dread that she had done something wrong and was going to be punished and she needed to run to hide…

She heard him shout as she turned and hesitated, unsure how to escape when she found herself facing impassable stonework. Frustrated and flustered, she couldn’t at first remember that she could run either to the left or the right along the wall. Instead she thought only of getting away from what was behind her, which meant moving forwards, which meant climbing the wall. She looked up to see if there were any handholds, and all her fears of the Commander faded in the face of what towered over her. A stack of crates was looming on the edge of the wall, leaning out over the side, swaying slightly as if being balanced. As she hesitated she saw the stack wobble one last time to tip that little bit too far. And all she could do was stand there, staring upwards and waiting for the inevitable…

One moment, a crate over her head was falling, the lid coming off, heavy-looking pieces of metal inside reflecting the light of the morning sun.

The next moment, something just as hard and unyielding struck her from behind, pulling her off her feet, spinning her through the air. She struggled, blindly, not understanding how the crates could have landed on her from behind. Then she and this other very heavy and very hard thing landed on the ground, the force knocking the wind from her body, leaving her silent and empty.

Cullen was ever the soldier first. It was an involuntary action, like breathing, long-ingrained after spending more than half his life as a templar. He had to continually scan his environment, to be aware of who and what was around him, and where, and what was the possible danger, if any. As soon as he and Varric passed the open area between the tents, his head twisted to look down the narrow space. In less than a heartbeat he became aware of the girl, dressed in nondescript clothing like a servant, leaning out from the wall. And of the stack of crates teetering over her oblivious head. He shouted, already moving towards her, intending to warn her of the danger she was in, only to see her eyes widen in fear… of him? He watched with consternation as she turned away from him and stopped, seemingly confused to find herself facing a wall, and then slowly lifting her face to stare acceptingly at her fate. He didn’t have time to curse as his powerful legs propelled him forward, desperate to reach her before the crates fell.

It was a race he barely won. The top crate had opened as it fell, chunks of metal escaping to rain like lethal hail ahead of the wooden box. He reached the girl and gripped her with his gloved hands, pushing her ahead of him, twisting her around to tuck her beneath his armored chest. He didn't register her resistance, the blind and fearful thrashing, only that he had her safely away from the danger. Something hard hit his shoulder pauldron, bouncing away harmlessly, before the ground raced up to meet them.

It took a few moments for everything to quiet down. Metal hail continued to fall, a few rolling far enough to strike the sole of his boot, making a sound like a collapsing building. More crates followed, each of them a little louder than the first, shattering open and piling themselves on top of each other. He hunched over the girl, covering her with his whole body, shielding her from the danger, until at last there was silence.

He had his eyes opened the whole time, staring at the youthful face beneath him. Long brown hair had been flung across the lower part of her face, obscuring her features, the strands unmoving as they stretched across a fully opened mouth. But it was her eyes that captivated him, eyes so wide that he could barely see the ring of soft brown irises. Large dark eyes like a doe, an innocent forest creature startled by an unseen danger.

She made a small sound, a gasp, her whole body shuddering as she struggled to breathe. He realized he was lying on top of her, his weight pressing down against her diaphragm and chest. He shifted to his knees, though he remained over her, and asked, “Are you all right?” His gloved fingers reached out to pull her hair away from her mouth.

Before he could touch her she flinched, gasping, limbs flailing until she managed to roll out from beneath him. She coughed and gave a little moan as she pushed herself to sit up. Immediately she ducked her head, her hair falling forwards to continue hiding her face, though she did consent to tilt one large brown eye towards him, almost as if peeking over her shoulder.

He didn’t try to touch her again, as startled as she by her reaction, though his hazel eyes studied every minute detail to ascertain her condition. Her lips were parted, still trying to fully re-inflate her lungs, a few lighter strands of hair over her mouth moving with the current. Her whole body heaved with each breath, but it appeared that everything was still in working order. He watched her swallow and struggle to speak, “Ex… excuse me… I… I shouldn’t have… I…”

“You’re right; you shouldn’t have!” he snapped. Damn it, but the girl had given him a scare. Giving her a scare in return might teach her to be a little more observant. “Those crates nearly bashed your brains in!”

It was his best scowl, one he saved for the newest recruits who showed the most promise, and an appalling lack of seriousness. It did not have the desired effect, however, causing him to stare in consternation as she accepted her reprimand without protest. In fact, without any emotion. She capitulated so readily, he was the one feeling like an arse, yelling at a girl—a servant! Maker’s Breath, but this day was not starting out very well.

“Are you hurt?” he started again, intentionally keeping his voice calm and soothing. He didn’t understand why she feared him so much, but he thought it might be best if he treated her with aloof politeness. She wasn’t one of his recruits, after all. He held out a hand for her to take. She stared at it a moment, that one large brown eye blinking. After a couple of heartbeats she shook her head and set her hand in his.

“What were you doing back here?” he asked, helping her to her feet. Carefully he brushed the worst of the muck off her arms and shoulders, letting her brush off her posterior.

“I, er, I was, um, on my way, that is, Seeker Cassandra, uh, wanted me to…” Her voice faded away, her wits too scattered to think of a lie quick enough. Apparently her luck was turning, as he seemed willing to let her off the hook.

“She’s up at the chantry, not down here,” he pointed out.

She nodded, a quick and flighty sort of movement.

“Well, if you’re not harmed, then you’d best get going. Mustn’t keep the Seeker waiting, if she has work for you to do.”

“No, ah, no, she, that is…” her words sputtered out again. She stared at the Commander; she had no trouble remembering him from last week, his commanding presence, his concern for his men. Yet apparently he thought she was… a servant? Mentally slapping herself, she decided it didn’t matter what he thought of her, as long as he had forgotten, or forgiven, her eavesdropping. Muttering a quick, “Excuse me,” she spun away, nearly tripping over her own feet in her hasty retreat, scurrying to put as much distance between herself and the Commander who flustered her so easily.

Cullen let himself be distracted for a moment, watching the girl race off like a startled rabbit. Such an odd person…

“Pummeled by Pommels,” Varric quipped, reminding him he wasn’t alone. He turned around to see the dwarf holding one of the pommels that had fallen out of the top crate. “Sounds like the title to a cheap who-dun-it.”

“Yes, the first book in your next serial, perhaps?” Cullen countered.

“Funny, Curly, very funny. What do you say, we solve this little mishap before we go inventing new ones?”

“Good idea,” he hummed. He turned his gaze upwards, where a very confused and shaken Threnn, the Inquisition’s quartermaster, was leaning over the wall, looking down at the mess. “You, there! What happened?”

“I… I don’t know, ser,” Threnn stuttered, recognizing the uniform of a superior officer rather than the man wearing it. “One moment, everything’s fine. The next…” she shrugged.

After nearly ending up crushed beneath the debris himself, he was in no mood to be placated by a mere shrug. He lifted hard hazel eyes up at the startled woman, not at all at a disadvantage simply because he was standing several feet below her. “You don’t know,” he repeated in a disgusted tone. “That poor girl was nearly killed, crushed beneath a mountain of equipment,” he pointed to the jumbled mess heaped thigh high, “All because you couldn’t be bothered to know about your own job.”

Threnn swallowed, but her ignorance was painfully clear. “I swear, ser, I don’t know how it happened. That stack’s been there for three days, and never once looked like it was about to fall. No one was even near it today, not that I saw.”

“Who stacked them?” he pressed, feeling his ire rise at the quartermaster’s lapse in attention.

“One of the soldiers; how should I know?”

“Damn it, woman, it’s your business to know!”

“Hey, Curly, come on,” Varric put a hand on his arm, “No harm’s done, everyone’s fine. Let’s step away, huh? Let the woman do her job and clean up the mess.”

“Someone almost got killed due to dereliction of duty, Varric. I cannot let that slide.”

“Yeah, I know, but not here,” he pressed in a low voice. The tone gave Cullen pause, and he reluctantly agreed to let Varric pull him away from the quartermaster and the soldiers already at work cleaning up the mess.

“All right,” he ground out between clenched teeth, once they were a little ways away from the others, “What’s going on? Why did you stop me from putting her on report.”

“Look,” Varric sighed, pausing to rub at the back of his neck. He always got a pain there whenever he had to deal with humans too much, probably from all the craning. “If there’s one thing you gotta keep in mind when dealing with the Herald, it’s that accidents happen around her. Most of them are things she does herself, like tripping over her own feet or backing into people and chairs. But sometimes, it’s just bad luck, you know, or meant to look that way…?”

Cullen’s honey-colored brows drew forwards over his eyes in a frown, the space between them filling with deep wrinkles. It was a positively sinister look, one that immediately made every recruit quake in their boots. “I’m no longer in the mood for riddles, Varric…”

The dwarf was immune, having seen too much in his life to be concerned with a pissed-off former templar. He was more frustrated with Cullen’s lack of understanding. “I’m not… I just… argh,” he grunted, pulling him even further away from any potential eavesdroppers. “You’ve been told, I take it, about the attempts made on her life, during those first few days after the explosion?”

“Somewhat,” he allowed. “Truthfully, I’ve had other matters on my mind…”

“Well, Cassandra hasn’t. She’s taken it upon herself to keep an eye on the Herald, mostly because these attempts have continued.” He saw Cullen’s shocked look and knew he was finally getting through his thick skull. “Oh, they’ve been clever, whoever it is who’s trying to kill her. The girl’s accident prone to begin with, so if something happens that appears to be random—and potentially fatal—there’s no one to point an accusing finger at. Like just now. Sure, Threnn is in charge of supplies for the Inquisition, but that stack’s been there for days, and who could have predicted that the Herald would have been standing there this morning, right underneath it? Yet she was, and it fell, and there’s no one to blame. You see what I’m getting at?”

“I’m beginning to… Wait!” he gasped, his eyes growing wide. “Maker’s Breath! That was the Herald…?”

Now it was Varric’s turn to look surprised. “You really didn’t recognize her?” He chuckled, a little darkly, and added, “Oh, this is rich.”

“That girl…” Cullen turned to look in the direction she had run off. “The Herald…” he swallowed. “And I treated her like a servant.”

Varric couldn’t help himself, the laughter fading but the shit-eating grin splitting his face wide open. Cullen faced him again and groaned at the expression.  "You could have said something, you know.”

He tried, and failed, to make his face look innocent. "Oh, I don't know. Seemed like you had everything well in hand." He struggled not to laugh more at the stricken look on Cullen's face.  “Don’t worry about it, Curly,” he tried to put his mind to rest, somewhat sincerely, “She is rather unremarkable, after all.”

Not those eyes, he thought to himself.

“Lots of people overlook her, especially the way she hunches in on herself, and gravitates to the side or stands out of the way. I’m sure she didn’t take offense over the way you brushed her off.” All his reassurances were calculated precisely to increase Cullen’s discomfort.

“I… I should go… apologize or something…”

Varric briefly wished he could be a fly on the wall for that conversation. “Fine, but when you do, don’t mention that we think someone’s out to get her. It’s kinda something Leliana and Cassandra want to keep her from having to worry about; poor girl’s got enough on her plate as it is.”

“Why shouldn’t she know she’s in danger?” he asked, confused.

“Well,” Varric shifted from foot to foot; he always felt uncomfortable with this part of the plan. “We’ve been keeping it under wraps, because Leliana doesn’t want to let on that we know there’s an assassin after the Herald. She’s hoping that he’ll get overconfident, thinking he’s remaining undetected, and make some fatal mistake. But that means we can’t let her know someone’s out to get her, or she might act differently. There are some of us who are keeping an eye on her day and night, hoping to catch sight of this assailant, but so far…” he spread his hands. “Well, you’re observant. Did you see who pushed the stack?”

Cullen thought about it for a moment. “No, there was no one close enough that I could see.”

Varric nodded. “Yeah, it’s been difficult. Still, we gotta try, for all our sakes; the Herald is the only one able to close the Breach or those other smaller rifts.” He started walking with Cullen up towards the chantry. “So, let them know what happened this morning, but do it where the Herald can’t hear.”

“Understood,” he agreed.

“Oh, and, ah,” he stopped him with a hand to his chest, “Don’t forget your apology.”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, and moaned, “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Never,” he agreed.

Cullen drew a heavy breath and pushed open the doors of the chantry, leaving Varric chortling behind him.

Inside the building it was cool, the tall ceilings drawing the heat upwards and the snow-packed windows letting in only muted sunlight. He set his shoulders and marched down the length of the hallway, only giving brief nods to those who offered greetings, as he headed towards the room at the back. He and Cassandra had been setting it up as a war room of sorts, collecting maps and compiling reports, so that when this latest member of the Inquisition arrived, he or she could be quickly brought up to speed.

He knocked briefly on the door, more to give warning than to ask permission to enter, and opened it with hardly a break in his stride. “Good morning, everyone,” he said crisply, all business and efficiency.

“Ah, Commander,” Cassandra greeted him, her accent as thick as the braid in her hair. “Now that you have arrived, we can make the introductions.”

He glanced around at the others as names were exchanged, and couldn’t help but feel a bit of apprehension: he was the only male in the room.

* * *

The meeting had lasted all morning, thanks to his late arrival. Cullen had stoically endured the silent looks full of questions from Josephine, the subtle glances Leliana made to the mud on his new uniform, and the pregnant pauses as Cassandra struggled not to ask why he had been so late. As Varric predicted, the Herald hung back a bit, almost blending into the paneling with her long brown hair mimicking the patterns of the woodgrains. Yet when Cassandra asked for her help on a course of action, she readily gave it with hardly a thought or concern for the danger or hardships involved.

“Then we’ll leave for the Hinterlands in the morning,” Cassandra declared, leaning away from the table. Leliana began gathering up reports while Josephine’s quill made scratching noises at her tablet.

The Herald made to leave, sensing the meeting was over, but Cullen’s voice stopped her. “One moment, Herald,” he said, trying to be quiet but knowing the other women were straining their ears to hear every word. He saw the girl pause at the door, and stepped up to her side to try to attain some sort of privacy.

“Oh, ah, yes, Commander Cullen?” she sputtered, still keeping her face hidden within those long straight locks. Apparently there simply was something about him that made her nervous, judging by her downcast face and hunched posture and the hand on the door ready to open it. Even her eyes were lifting no higher than his abdomen, long and curved dark lashes fluttering with her high-strung blinks.

“Ah,” he paused. He had intended to deliver his apology as quickly as possible, but with her nervous state, and their eager audience, he decided to wait for a better opportunity—a less stressful opportunity. “Don’t forget, Varric’s waiting for you in the tavern.”

He hadn't meant to elicit a reaction from her, yet it got her to lift her face up to him. He almost regretted it, seeing her stricken expression: twisted brows, wide eyes, pink-tinted cheeks, slack mouth… Blessed Andraste, those scars…

As if suddenly realizing someone had a clear view of her face, she ducked her head again, hunching her shoulders, pulling in on herself even tighter than before. It was a defensive gesture, something that set off alarms in his head, but he brushed them aside for now. The girl had been through quite a lot in a short time, after all—not to mention whatever had happened that had left those scars. It was completely understandable for her to be a little skittish. Besides, he had caught her eavesdropping, and reminded her of that embarrassing fact by bringing up Varric and his story.

“Yes, well,” he tried to ease her discomfort, yet somehow only made it worse, “He’s in the tavern. I could…”

He had intended to offer to walk her there, thinking not only of protecting her from her mysterious assailant, but that it would be a perfect opportunity for him to apologize for his earlier treatment of her. Yet she was already turning away, mumbling about not wanting to keep Varric waiting, nearly hitting herself in the face with the door in her haste to escape.

He took a deep breath and made to follow her, he was a man rarely dissuaded from a mission, but Leliana’s voice stopped him. “A moment, Commander.” He let the breath out slightly exasperated, but closed the door and allowed the Herald get away. Instead of talking to him, however, she turned towards Josephine. “Well, Josie?”

The latest recruit to the Inquisition tapped her cheek thoughtfully with the feathered end of her quill. “Yes, very odd, as you said on our way here.” She paused to sigh, tilting her head as she considered. “You asked me to provide a fresh and un-coached opinion of the Herald; I will give it. I would say she is slightly strange, but these are strange times, as is her situation.”

“Concentrate on how she acts,” Leliana pressed, “Her personality. Her body language. Anything.”

Josephine took another pause, her eyes staring at the table spread with maps and pins. “Very well. She obviously lacks self-confidence, as is evident in her posture, and her fumbling to open the door just now.”

“I figured as much,” Cassandra hummed, but after a quick look from Leliana she became silent again.

“There’s more to it, like a… nervousness. An almost skittish or… oh, what’s the word… fearfulness? Yes! That is it! She acts fearful, but it’s not a life-or-death type of fear, nor is it directed at us. Except,” she gave a little, teasing sort of laugh, her eyes flashing, “For the Commander. There is something about him that leaves her exceptionally flustered.”

“That’s not entirely my fault,” he tried to defend himself.

“Perhaps it is only that you remind her of that which she fears. That being something from her past. Such as, how she acquired those scars…”

“She has amnesia,” Cassandra bluntly stated. “If there is something in her past that would make her fearful, she cannot remember it.”

“Not directly, no,” Josephine allowed, “But she could be remembering the emotion, without being able to remember the cause.” She looked to Cullen. “She seemed all right with us women, but you made her nervous, Commander. Could it be because you are male?”

“It wasn’t that…” he tried again.

“No, she has no trouble being around Solas,” Cassandra interrupted. “Or Varric; she often eagerly seeks out his company, as you just saw.”

“Then perhaps it is the uniform,” Josephine suggested. “It reminds her of, oh, I don’t know—the templars? Commander Cullen could easily do that, being a former templar himself. Perhaps she got those scars as a templar, or from an abusive templar, if she was a mage.”

“She isn’t a mage,” Leliana answered before Cullen could protest alleged templar abuse, “Solas confirmed that before she even woke up. And I checked through the list of all the templars who attended the Conclave. No one matched her description. It’s almost as if she wasn’t at the Conclave, but she had to have been, to have survived the explosion.”

“I don’t make her nervous because I’m male,” Cullen finally managed to squeeze in, “Or because I was a templar. I make her nervous, because I caught her spying on myself and Varric this morning.”

“She was…?” Leliana started, but stopped at the dark look spreading across his features. Apparently, he wasn’t to be interrupted again.

“I stopped to speak with Varric outside his tent on my way here.” Briefly he sketched in the details of what happened with the toppling crates, and Varric sharing the suspicion that there was someone out to kill her.

“That explains the mud on your uniform.”

“How long has this been going on?” asked Josephine, shocked.

“Since the explosion,” Leliana answered. “Even during those first few days, chained and locked up as our prisoner, someone tried twice to break into her cell and kill her. We had to post guards around her, for her own protection as well as to keep her incarcerated.” She looked at Cassandra, “It appears he hasn’t given up.”

“Are you sure it’s a ‘he’?” Josephine asked.

“Reasonably, thanks to a rather large footprint found next to a poisoned blade.” Leliana rounded on Cullen next. “And you are sure you saw no one by the crates?”

Cullen shook his head. “I’ll admit I was more concerned in saving the girl than seeing who was standing up on the wall, but I didn’t notice anyone close enough to have pushed the crates.”

Leliana nodded soberly. “I don’t know how it could have been anything other than an ‘accident.’ No one could have planned that she’d be standing at that exact place, at that exact time. Yet…”

“It might have been luck,” Josephine supplied, “Her assailant was merely passing by, saw an opportunity, and took it.”

“Bad luck,” Cassandra grumbled, “Which she seems to gather by the bucketful.”

Leliana shook her head, giving up on figuring out the Herald’s problems. “Regardless, perhaps you shouldn’t take her with you to the Hinterlands, Cassandra. I know Mother Giselle asked specifically for the Herald, but…”

“She’ll be safe enough,” Cassandra countered. “I’ll take Solas and Varric with us; they already know about these ‘accidents,’ and are quite capable of helping me protect her. And we’ll watch to see if anyone else from Haven tags along. An extra and unexpected soldier could be our assassin.”

“That would be too much to hope for, wouldn’t it? That he’d be that careless.” Leliana sighed. “Very well. We’ll continue to watch and wait, and pray he does something obvious. Commander Cullen, Josie, I’m sure I don’t have to stress to you the importance of acting normally. We can’t let on that we know there’s a killer on the loose. We especially can’t afford for the Herald to act any differently. So, please, I know it’s cruel, but don’t let her know that she’s in danger.”

“It does seem cruel, yes,” Josephine hesitantly agreed, before finishing in a rush, “But I trust you. I won’t speak to the Herald about this.”

Cullen thought his cooperation in the matter had already been proven, but when Leliana stared at him, he also gave a curt nod.

“If there’s nothing else?” Cassandra asked, looking at Leliana who shook her head. “Then excuse me. I have a lot to prepare before we leave tomorrow.”

She spun on her heel and had opened the door before Cullen managed to make his own excuse. “I, ah,” he gave a little cough, “I should get going as well. There are, um… recruits… in need of, er… training… and the like.” He gave a short bow, but didn’t wait for their acknowledgment before he too was out the door. Not quite fast enough, however, as he heard Josephine’s voice drifting past his ears.

“Oh, you were right—he is a cute one!”

Blessed Sweet Andraste, he thought to himself, clicking the door firmly closed behind him and blocking out any response Leliana may have given. Why was it always the same, he asked himself as he started for the main door. He had garnered the attention of the young ladies, ever since he became a templar recruit. He thought at first it was the uniform; it was said some girls liked a man in uniform. Yet on those rare occasions when he’d worn civilian clothing, the girls still gathered irritatingly nearby. One of his fellow templars, a slightly older woman, once told him he had a ‘baby face,’ whatever that was supposed to do. He figured it meant something youthful, so he’d tried growing a goatee.

That also didn’t work. If anything, it seemed to draw the attention of even more women. He rubbed at the back of his neck while his boots pounded across the snow packed lane, his eyes scanning automatically. No matter what he tried, he could never escape the feminine whispers and giggles and, and, and silliness and… He made a disgusted sound quietly and mentally shook his head. What was it about girls and giggling? Always giggling, just behind your shoulder, growing suddenly quiet whenever you turned around, and then bursting out again as soon as your back was turned. Were they giggling at him? Was there something in his teeth? A cowlick in his hair? What?

It was maddening.

Even the recent marring of his ‘baby face,’ a scar acquired during the Kirkwall Rebellion—from his Knight-Commander no less—had no effect. He tried shaving the beard and allowing the scar to show more prominently, but women only cooed and suggested that there was some valiant story behind how he’d gotten it. His steps stopped and he sighed, letting his eyes drift out over the view. If only they knew…

He started walking again, pushing the problem aside. After all, it wasn’t as if he preferred men or anything. He liked girls, had even liked one or two well enough over the years thank-you-very-much! But it had never been his desire to have a wife and children. His family, the only family he had ever wanted, was the Templar Order. And he’d had that, for a time. His fellow recruits had been his brothers and sisters, his commanding officers his father figures. After he’d risen in the ranks, the younger recruits were like his nieces and nephews, his sons and daughters. All that was gone, now.

Well, not all. He passed his tent, not daring to glance at it, lest it tempt him too much. He had given up a lot to become a templar. At the time, he had felt it was the right thing to do—just as he felt now, about the Inquisition. Yet whatever he had sacrificed to become a templar, was nothing compared to what he had sacrificed to join the Inquisition.

He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he was infallible. He knew what he was doing was dangerous, even life-threatening, at the very least his judgment might become impaired. He needed someone to act as his safeguard. He needed someone knowledgable, someone who could be understanding without being sympathetic. His options were limited, however. There were very few who understood what it meant to be a templar, without being one themselves.

He looked around again, his eyes ever sweeping, ever evaluating…

…and saw Cassandra sitting outside her tent, honing the keen edge of her blade, preparing it for tomorrow’s journey. Perfect.

“Seeker, might I have a word with you?” he called out as he approached.

“Of course, Commander,” she inclined her head, her main focus on her sword.

“In… private,” he added softly, an uncomfortable tension tightening around his eyes.

The whetstone stopped in her hand. She didn’t speak again, but nodded once and carefully set aside her blade. Dusting off her hands as she stood, she fell into step beside him.

Once they started moving, a little of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. He took a deep breath and searched the area to make sure they were not followed. Still he couldn’t make eye contact as they started away from the soldiers’ encampment, where they both stayed, and downhill towards the lake. “I, ah, I’ve come to a decision. Last night.”

When he grew silent for several paces, Cassandra encouraged him with a very gentle, “Oh?”

“Yes. The Inquisition is important, not that it wasn’t before, when the Divine meant it as a backup plan for stopping the Mage/Templar war. But now, with the Conclave destroyed, the Divine dead, demons spilling out of rifts all over Orlais and Ferelden, the Breach…” He stopped her, far enough away from the practicing recruits that no one could hear them. “The Inquisition means more now—to all of Thedas—than it ever did before. I… I want to give as much as the Commander of the Inquisition, as I gave as a templar.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, her black brows pulling with suspicion.

He took a steadying breath before facing her squarely. “I’m giving up taking lyrium. It’s a tie to my templar past, a tie that I must sever or it’ll forever color my reason. The Inquisition must be more important to me than anything else.”

She felt a cold chill run down her spine; what he was proposing simply wasn't done. “Are you sure, Cullen?" she dropped the title as she set the tips of her fingers on his sleeve, the conversation becoming too personal. "There are risks involved…”

“I know the risks,” his voice was dark though passionate, “But this must be done. I must do this.”

She paused a moment before she accepted his conviction and nodded. “How can I help?”

He glanced away, staring out over the frozen surface of the lake. “Keep an eye on me. If I start to slip… if my judgment falters, or I rely too much on lyrium, or for whatever reason…” He looked back at her. “If I am no longer able to perform my duties, I need you to relieve me of command and find a new commander. I’ll accede to your judgment in this. Hold me accountable, Cassandra, please.”

Though she was a Seeker not a Templar, and therefore did not take lyrium, she did understand the price he was about to pay. “Of course, Commander,” she affirmed his title, instilling her voice with confidence. Truthfully, if he was to succeed in this, it would take a miracle. “How do you plan on doing this?”

“I’ve decided to try weaning myself,” he admitted, “I already started decreasing my dosage as of this morning.”

She nodded as if this was the most logical course of action, whether or not she agreed with him. “Any ill effects?”

He gave her half a smile, pulling at the scar above his lip. “It’s too soon to tell, yet, which is why I wanted to speak with you now, before there could be any doubt as to my personal motives or mental faculties. If anything arises, I’ll share it with you, but I might not be able to tell.”

Her hand moved to his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, “I understand. I will do as you ask. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish packing for tomorrow.”

“Of course. Thank you, Seeker.”

“Commander, I…” she tried to give him encouragement, but words had never been her strongest skill. “You’ll be fine. I have confidence in you.”

She saw him nod in answer before she turned away, her thoughts racing. If he could succeed, if he could somehow manage what no other templar had, it would mean a great deal to a lot of people. It could inspire more to join their cause, namely other templars dissatisfied with the direction their Order was taking. Silently she prayed for his continued strength and willpower, not only for his sake, but for those others who had yet to follow his example.

Cullen watched her go, the smile turning self-deprecating. “That makes one of us…”


	2. First Kiss

There was a commotion in the trees not far from camp, the unmistakable sound of something large breaking through branches and undergrowth. Cullen lifted his gaze away from the training recruits, curious and ready to respond if there was danger. Though he couldn’t see what was making the noise, he could ascertain that it was a person coming quickly through the trees, female judging by the unintelligible but very frightened cries. Damn, it definitely sounded like trouble, and he had decided not to wear his armor today.

He wasn’t without his sword, however, and with his hand on the pommel he started for the place where he thought the person would emerge from the forest. Three soldiers fell into step behind him, and he noticed with a rueful glance that they were fully armored. “Spread out,” he commanded without breaking his stride, “In case she isn’t friendly, or there’s more than one.” Quickly the soldiers obeyed, and he felt a brief twinge of pride in his chest, seeing their efficient movements and knowing it was a product of the training he’d given them. Then he pushed emotion aside and waited for the newcomer.

It wasn’t long before he saw her, running pell-mell through the forest, tripping over fallen branches hidden beneath snowbanks, careening off of one trunk to stumble into another. Her mouth was open, voicing a choking scream, her face streaked with grime and tears.

Blessed Andraste, it was the Herald. In full hysterics. He scanned the trees behind her, alert and ready to engage whatever was chasing her, but nothing emerged. Confused he glanced from her to the forest and back to her, but there was no sign of anything threatening her, whether bear or dragon or demon.

He took his hand off his sword and signaled the others to remain some distance back, just in case the danger was still coming or had decided to hide. Then he began striding towards her, having to adjust his course twice to accommodate her stumbling and wayward steps. They met not too far into the forest. Amazingly she ran right into him, smacking into his chest as if she hadn’t seen him. He gripped her by her shoulders before she could fall, but she struggled to get away, sobbing her screams, her eyes wide and glazed.

Her hysterics were too strong, so she didn’t recognize him, only able to register that something was keeping her from escaping—something she had to fight against. She screamed, cried, writhed between his hands, all to no avail. Cullen knew he had to calm her down, and quickly, or he’d never get it out of her in time what was chasing her.

He didn’t think; he acted. One hand pulled back and swung around in an arc, landing a stinging slap against the side of her face. The force was enough to knock her from his grip and onto her backside into a knee-deep snowdrift. Cullen stared at her critically, gauging her reaction to his slap. She sat there, stunned, her breath shuddering but no longer screaming, her limbs limp and no longer struggling. She lifted her face to him, a rare occurrence indeed, and blinked those soft brown orbs at him. Her eyes were still wide, but no longer glazed and unseeing, focusing on his face.

“…Commander…?” she said in a very, very small voice.

Cullen didn’t smile, but he did feel relief she had come to her senses. He leaned over her, grabbing her arm and almost yanking her to her feet. “Better?”

It took a moment for her to convince her legs to hold her up. She gripped his forearms, grateful for the support. Then she began to feel the injury on her butt cheek, and knew a bruise would be forming. Wondering how she’d gotten hurt, she looked behind her at the indentation she had made when she fell, seeing a partially decayed log that had been hidden beneath the snow. A tiny crease formed between her eyebrows, her mouth still sort of slack, though thankfully empty of cries. Looking back up at him, she hesitantly nodded.

“Good, then you can tell me what in the bloody Fade is chasing you.”

“…chasing me…?” she repeated.

Cullen tried damn hard not to curse, thinking her wits were still scattered. “Do I have to slap you again?”

“No!” she answered quickly, feeling the sting on her cheek. “No, I, ah, there’s nothing chasing me…” Her actions seemed to belie her words, as she continued to cling to his arms while she stared frightfully over her shoulder.

“Then what’s the danger?”

“Danger?” she asked, looking back at him. Seeing his expression darken, and fearful of another slap, she swallowed and quickly tried to explain. “No, no danger, there were spiders, but they’re in the cave, not chasing me, have you seen Sera?”

“There’s no danger?” he stressed, wanting to make sure of that fact before he tackled the rest of the nonsense. When she nodded, he lifted his gaze away from her face, staring over the top of her head at the forest around them. “Then let’s get back to camp, and you can tell me what had you so scared.”

“Spiders,” she gulped, “Lots of spiders.”

“Spiders,” he repeated, sounding like he didn’t believe her. He kept one hand on her arm, steadying her as they trekked through the snow.

“Yes, ah, it was Sera. She said there was a cave nearby, and she had seen something inside it, something that glittered, like maybe gemstones. I thought it might be a good idea to look; gemstones would bring good coin for the Inquisition. Anyway, we went to the cave, and Sera brought a lamp, but it went out just before we entered the cave. She said there was already a lamp in there, all I had to do was go in and turn up the wick. So I did. Only when I looked around, I didn’t see gemstones, I saw eyes. Loads of them. And fangs. And all those hairy legs…” her voice choked in her throat, her feet stumbled through a drift.

Cullen was there, holding her, keeping her on her feet and out of the snow. He stopped walking to give her a chance to find her equilibrium, and to clarify a point. “Maker’s breath,” he sighed, staring at her, “You’re scared of spiders.”

It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but again she lifted her face towards him and blinked those soft brown eyes. “Yes. Aren’t you?”

“No.” He didn’t see her face very often, occasionally an eye would appear beneath her overgrown bangs, or the tip of her nose from around the edge of those long, straight locks. That she had grown comfortable enough around him to let him see her face was astonishing. Then again, she might simply be so distraught by the spiders—something she obviously greatly feared—that she hadn’t realized the clear view she was giving him of her scars. He didn’t stare, not like he had that first day, and instead made himself focus on her eyes. His hand reached up to brush those wayward bangs off her forehead.

The Herald flinched away. Quickly she dropped her face, the tips of her cheeks turning pink, her eyelids flickering as she grew flustered.

“No,” he repeated, trying to put her back at ease. He had just gotten her calm; he didn't need her going into hysterics again. “Not everyone has the same fears, you know. There are other people who fear spiders, but I am not one of them.”

She nodded, and he could hear her swallow. Then in that small voice of hers she asked, “What do you fear?”

He couldn’t answer. Like an old wound being picked open, a flood of memories bled into his thoughts. Too close confinement. Voices in his head. Death surrounding him. Temptation eating at his faith…

The Herald took his silence the wrong way, and started sputtering an apology. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. Of course you’re not cowardly; someone like you isn’t afraid of anything. You’ve faced mages and demons and bears and blights and, well, you’ve probably never-ever flinched, and, oh, I’ll just, ah,” her voice trailed away.

Cullen came back to himself. He wasn’t insulted—blindsided, but not insulted. Still it wasn’t something he could easily share, much less put into words. Before he had to try, however, there was a bright burst of color that streaked past, topped by a ragged mop of blonde hair. It was accompanied by a maddening giggle interspersed with semi-intelligible taunts. “Har-har-harry! Hairy! Hairy-legs! Harry’s scared-y hairy-legs!”

The Herald saw her, too, and immediately forgot that she had stuck her foot in her mouth with Cullen, in favor of catching her prank-pulling friend. “Sera! Come back here! I’m gonna get you for that! You know I hate spiders!”

He barely managed to grab a handful of her coat before she could slip away. “Whoa. Calm down. You can’t go chasing after that bratty elf, no matter how justified. It isn’t seemly for a woman of your position.”

“But I…” she tried to pry his fingers away, but they held her like a vice. “But she…” next she tried slipping out of her jacket, but he countered by slipping his arm around her, holding her fast. “Oh!” she stamped her foot, but luckily missed his.

The next moment she stopped trying to escape. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, not moving. Cullen waited a few extra moments, not sure if he could trust her, until she started speaking. “You’re right, Commander. I sometimes forget that I’m the Herald, that I must consider how others view me, that they judge the Inquisition through my actions. And chasing after one of my companions would appear... unseemly. Thank you for stopping me from making a fool of myself.”

“Er,” he loosened his grip minimally, but when she didn’t take the bait, he thought perhaps she was sincere. “You’re welcome.”

His hands fell away from her form. The next heartbeat she was off like an arrow, far faster than he had expected, her laughing voice trailing back to him over her shoulder, “But she’s headed away from Haven! No one will see…” Another heartbeat, and she had disappeared into the forest after Sera.

“I swear,” he mumbled to himself, “By all that’s holy, if there’s even the slightest mishap from this, I’ll bend them over my knee and spank them both!”

“Why, Commander Cullen, kinky,” Leliana’s voice sounded drolly from just behind him. “I didn’t know you were into threesomes.”

“I didn’t mean… not that… they were… ugh!” He gave up trying to explain himself under the force of her laughter. With a disgusted wave, he turned his back on the Herald and Sera and started back for camp.

“Relax, Commander,” Leliana tried to stifle her laughter as she reassured him, “I have my scout trainees watching them. They won’t get into any trouble.”

“Won’t get into any trouble?” he repeated, his voice rife with disbelief. “Do you know what just happened? What Sera did?”

“She tricked the Herald into entering a cave full of spiders. Yes, I know,” Leliana admitted, very calmly in his opinion. “The scouts determined ahead of time that the spiders weren’t poisonous, or they would never have allowed her to enter the cave. However, no one could have foreseen her fear of spiders. Or the hysterics that they caused. Once they realized she was scared out of her wits, one came and informed me while the others made sure she didn’t break her neck racing through the forest. A few well-aimed stones and some strange animal calls, and they had her steered directly towards camp and, well,” her eyes swept up and down his form suggestively, “Your protective arms.”

“They’re not… I wasn’t… oh, Maker, this headache!” He put a gloved hand to his brow, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

Leliana refrained from laughing this time, but only because she saw how much pain he was feeling. Thinking it might be serious, she set aside her teasing and placed a concerned hand on his arm. “Commander, are you feeling well? Would you care for…”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted her. With a determined set to his jaw, he pushed aside all discomfort and focused on the task at hand. “Your scouts are still following them?”

“They are,” she confirmed as they walked into camp, willing to let the matter go but continuing to watch him discreetly. “If the girls get into too much trouble, my scouts will interfere and send them back to Haven.”

“Ser!” a voice called out. Both turned to see one of her scout trainees running up to them, waving his arms. Cullen swept his hard hazel eyes in the direction the man was gesturing, and had to muse, “What are they up to now?”

* * *

The Herald wasn’t a particularly fast runner, but she was determined. And Sera spent as much time laughing and shouting insults as she did running. It wasn’t too long before the Herald caught up with her prank-prone playmate. With a cry of victory, and a squeal of delight from Sera, she tackled the elf, the two of them falling down on the side of a hill. Sera wasn’t finished yet, however, and wrestled with the Herald, Sera giggling and the Herald protesting as they lost their balance and rolled over and over downhill.

When they came to a stop, the Herald was on top, a knee planted on either side of Sera’s hips, her hands on the other’s shoulders. “Ha! I win!”

“Only because I let you, dinnit I?” Sera taunted. Her full lips were pouting, a tiny crease forming between her eyes. The Herald saw the signs, knew she was getting mad, but she was mad, too.

“Why did you do it?”

“What? Let you win?”

“No,” the Herald leaned in closer, her current frustration warring with her remembered fear. “The cave with the spiders. You know I’m scared of them, but you left me alone in the dark…”

“You had a lamp,” Sera protested, but her words weren’t even heard.

“… with all those, those, those THINGS, looking at me with all those EYES, and all those LEGS started moving…” She broke off suddenly, shuddering, looking like she wanted to sick up. Sera began scrambling to get out of the way, just in case, but the Herald leaned back and let her go. She sat there in the snow, one hand over her mouth, her eyes staring over the frozen lake.

Sera sat up, shifting around until she was beside the Herald, their shoulders touching. Her brow uncreased, her mercurial mood shifting back to teasing when she spoke. “Oh, you liked it and you know it. A good scare now and then, keeps the heart pumping, yeah? Makes you feel all tingly and alive.” She tilted her head coyly, trying to see around the curtain of dark brown hair. “You feeling tingly, right?”

She bumped their shoulders together. The Herald tried to push back hard enough to knock her into the snow, but she deflected the force with a knowing little giggle. Feeling more than a little miffed, she did have to grudgingly admit, “There’s some tingling, mostly the snow melting down my…”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Sera leaned over her, her movements quick like a viper, and stole a kiss.

She froze, and it wasn’t from the snow that had found its way past her waistband and into her leggings. Her wide brown eyes stared at the elf, her breath suddenly stopped, her body turned to ice. Had Sera just…?

“What? Not tingly enough?”

Her lips moved, but no sound was made. She blinked, suddenly remembering she had to breathe in order to speak. She took a shaky gasp and managed to string together some words that started to sound coherent. “Tingly? I thought we were talking about being scared…”

“Well, yeah, there is that,” Sera agreed, moving in front of her on her hands and knees, almost on her lap. “But there’s also the good kind of tingly, you know, when you look at someone, or think about them, and it gets all tingly and wet and wanting to rub against something. Against someone. Right? Am I right? You feeling that kind of tingly?”

The Herald swallowed, watching warily as she crawled forwards. Involuntarily the Herald leaned away, dropping to her elbows, but Sera pursued, getting very close to her mouth again. “I have no idea what you just said.”

Sera pouted again, the tiny crease returning to her brow. “You know. Tinnnnngggghhhhllllyyyyy,” she drew out the word, as if saying it slower would give it a different meaning. “Dinnit you feel that, when I kissed you?”

“I…” she stopped as suddenly as she started. Her whole mind felt like it was packed in the snowbank with her body, cold and motionless, as unable to think as she was to move.

The crease deepened, Sera getting more mad. “What did you feel, when I kissed you? Can you tell me that?” She shoved herself back from the Herald. “Or can you at least tell me, do you like girls?”

“I…” the Herald didn’t know what had just happened, but she knew things were going wrong, and she wanted desperately to fix them. “I like girls. I like you, Sera.”

“But not that way.” Sera made it to her feet, dusting the snow off her hands and knees.

“I don’t know what way you mean,” she countered, her voice almost pleading, her hand reaching out as if to stop Sera from leaving.

“What? Because of your neeshaw-thingy?”

“Amnesia,” the Herald seized on the excuse, standing up and mentally smacking herself for not having thought of it sooner. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t remember. Sera, tell me what I’m supposed to feel, and…”

“Doesn’t work like that, you ninny,” Sera shook her head. “Either you feeeeeel, or… oh, never mind. Figure it out for yourself!” She spun on her heel and stomped away through the snow.

“Sera! Wait!” the Herald called after her, but Sera only flashed her a rude gesture over her shoulder without even turning around. The Herald started after her, jogging to catch up. Sera started running, however, seriously this time; and when she put her mind to it, there wasn’t anyone who could keep up with her.

The Herald tried to keep up, the confusion and hurt and embarrassment overwhelming her. She wanted answers, and she thought Sera should be the one to give them, but Sera was getting away, racing out over the frozen lake. The Herald was scared of the solid water. She’d never seen ice form before, much less freeze an entire lake so solid that it could hold her weight. She hesitated at the shoreline a moment, watching the brightly clad elf slip away, before she found her courage and stepped out cautiously onto the slippery surface.

Voices started shouting behind her. Alarmed she turned to see several people dressed in the uniforms of Leliana’s scouts. They were shouting and waving their arms, racing towards her, trying to get her attention. Then they got close enough she could make out what they were saying.

“Don’t go onto the lake! The ice isn’t solid enough!”

The Herald swallowed, turning away from them to see Sera. She was almost in the middle of the lake now, and unaware of the danger. Her only thought to save her friend, she left the scouts behind and started again over the icy surface, shouting and hoping her voice would reach Sera in time.

Cullen was running, too, from a different direction than the scouts, yet he knew he'd be too late.

“What in the Void does she think she’s doing?!” shouted Leliana, racing with him but falling behind. One of the scouts had told them of Sera and the Herald getting too close to the lake, and how the ice wasn’t deemed thick enough. Fearing the worst, always advisable where the Herald was involved, they had started for the lake only to find, by that time, Sera was far out over the ice. And, apparently, the Herald was trying to save her.

“Don’t know!” he shouted, yanking off his mantle and unbuckling his sword as he kept moving. “Keep everyone else off the ice! And get a rope! A long one!” He reached the shore, pausing only long enough to finish stripping down to his tunic and leggings. Then he was off again, moving expertly over the treacherous surface as if he had skates for feet.

“Sera!” the Herald called out. “Seeeerrrrraaaa!!! The ice! The ice is thin! Come back!”

Sera never heard her, having pulled further and further ahead. She reached the far shore, jumped over a partially submerged log and transitioned to running in snow with hardly a fuss. A heartbeat later and she disappeared from view.

The Herald wasn’t as graceful. She lost her footing and took a nosedive, sliding across the ice on her chest. She winced from the impact, but shoved her hands in front of her to protect her head until she came to a stop. Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, she finally noticed Cullen running towards her, and belatedly realized that now she was the one in danger. She stared around her at the ice, as if she could tell just by the look of it if the ice was safe. Then the worst happened. There was a loud sound, a cracking sound, something that the Herald could feel as well as hear. She lifted wide brown eyes back to Cullen.

Another crack sounded, like a short bark of thunder, making her heart race. “Come towards me!” Cullen called to her as he ran. “Very slowly! On your hands and knees!” At that moment, very slowly wasn't in her vocabulary. She started scrambling, trying to reach her hands and knees as quickly as possible, but the more she struggled, the more flustered she became, and the more she found herself unable to gain any sort of traction.

The Herald tried one last time to reach her feet, only managing to bang her chin against the chilly surface with a force that seemed to rattle her teeth. With a groan she carefully felt around the inside of her mouth with her tongue, relieved not to find any blood. Then she looked at the ice beneath her.

It was strange to see her reflection. She didn’t often dwell on her appearance; there wasn’t much she could do about it anyway. She looked now, however, and saw her own visage, her brown hair framing her face like a curtain, the uneven surface of the ice softening the scars. It was a vision she had never seen, a vision of what she might have looked like, if she had never been hurt so long ago. But then a scar appeared, not in her reflection but beneath it, in the ice, a long and jagged white streak of frozen lightening. And she could see: the ice really wasn’t very thick on this part of the lake.

She looked up at Cullen, the expression on her face louder than any scream.

“…kaffas…”

The swear word fell softly from her lips, just before the ice parted and the freezing water claimed her.

Cullen didn’t slow. He had seen the Herald fall, had heard and felt the ice beginning to crack. He kept his eyes trained on the Herald, watching her lips move though he couldn’t make out what she said. When the ice gave way and she disappeared, he dropped his own curse from his lips and doubled his efforts. At a distance of ten yards, he felt the ice beneath him groan and shift. He dropped to his stomach, sliding the last couple of yards and into the water like a seal.

A person’s body reacts a certain way when suddenly dunked into cold water face first. He felt it, the muscles in his throat seizing, tightening up to choke off his airways. It was actually a good thing, keeping him from gasping and swallowing a lungful of water. He prayed the same had happened to the Herald, as she hadn't returned to the surface. He turned around in the churning water, dark blues and greens with streaks of sunlight refracting through the shifting ice overhead, but couldn’t find her. He wasn’t going to have very long to look, not at this temperature, but he wasn’t going to give up, either. He focused his gaze downward, thinking she might be sinking due to her clothing.

The Herald didn’t know where she was, floating weightless, unable to move, to even breathe, her extremities numb. All around her were shifting shades of blues and greens, calm and comforting colors, ones that kept her from feeling panicked. She couldn’t remember what had happened, or where she was, but neither could she make herself care.

Then a new shade appeared. Twin spots of teal, intense and powerful and calling to her like a beacon. She stared at them, trying to remember what they were, why they were there with her. The other hues began to change, the colors fading beneath penetrating stabs of white. Yet those two spots of teal held her attention, keeping her from drifting away into the void.

Cullen gasped as his head broke the surface, never having tasted air so sweet. His arm flexed, and a lolling head of brown bobbed up beside him. He didn’t take the time to celebrate, however. He made sure the Herald’s mouth and nose were facing upwards and out of the water. Next he looped one arm under both of hers, held her fast against his body, and began swimming awkwardly for the side of the hole.

If reaching the jagged edges of the broken ice had been difficult, lifting the two of them out of the frigid lake was nearly impossible. He struggled and strained against the extra weight, their bodies heavier with their saturated clothing, venting his frustration out in a grunt when the ice he was holding on to broke. He persevered, however, knowing he couldn’t call for help as any more weight on the ice would be disastrous. Besides, he was too stubborn to admit defeat.

In a final effort, he managed to lift one leg up over the rim, and half pull—half roll himself out of the water. One of his hands still held on to the Herald's coat, his fingers numb and frozen but twisted securely into the closures. Again his arm flexed, muscles shaking with cold and exertion, his teeth bared in a silent cry of fury.

Then she was there beside him, lying half on top of him, her lips blue and her eyes open. He rolled them over until she was beneath him, her back to his front, one of his arms clenched around her middle. He paused to determine which direction was the closest route to the shoreline before he started to slowly crawl, the ice continuing to crack threateningly.

His arm around her middle squeezed, holding her fast to his side, pulling her with him. It also had the effect of pushing on her diaphragm. Her lungs gave way under the force, what little air left inside gushing out with a couple mouthfuls of lake water. Almost immediately afterwards she gasped, trying to refill her lungs, and promptly started coughing. Cullen took it as a good sign—as long as she was coughing, air was moving into her—and kept his focus on reaching dry land.

“Commander!” Leliana’s voice called out to him. He lifted his head up just in time to see the end of the rope come sailing through the air towards them. He all but dropped the Herald so he could sit up and catch it, but luckily the ice beneath them held. There was a loop in the rope, and he wasted no time in slipping it under his arms and around his chest. He laid down and grabbed the Herald, holding her body on top of his, allowing her to use him like a sled as they were pulled across the ice.

The going was slow, but faster than he could have managed on his own. It started out rough, the men and women onshore pulling in spurts until they found their rhythm. He grimaced, only a thin and soggy tunic protecting him from the rutted ice scraping along his back, yet he could endure it. At this rate, it wouldn’t be much longer before they were safely on shore. Then it would be off to his tent for a healing potion and all would be well.

He tucked his chin to look at the Herald. He could feel her breathing against him, her hands clutching at his tunic but too numb with cold to hold on. “Herald,” he asked, hoping she was awake enough to answer. She didn’t, not verbally, but she did jerkily move her head until she could see him. “It’ll be all right now,” he tried to reassure her, “We’re almost to shore. Then I expect you’d want a nice hot bath. Would you like that?”

She didn’t answer, but one soft brown eye peeking out from beneath dripping bangs blinked at him.

“I know I would. Then some dry clothes. And something hot to drink. Hot and strong.” He kept talking, pausing now and then to try to get her to answer. She didn’t say one word, but she did nod once. He wasn’t discouraged, figuring she was as cold as he was though ten times more scared. So he kept on with their one-way conversation, holding her close with one arm while the other tried to rub some warmth and life back into her limbs.

“No, now that I’m thinking about it, something along the lines of a noir would go better with the venison.”

“Planning your first date, Commander?” Leliana’s voice floated from nearby.

“What?” he asked, lifting his head up to find they were only a few yards from shore. “Why, ah, no, no, not a date, why would you think, well, I suppose you might because, but I, she,” he sputtered to a halt as Leliana and her scouts came out onto the ice to help them. He let them lift the Herald off of him, but he refused their assistance as he struggled to stand. He loosened the rope and let it fall to the ground, kicking it away from his feet before turning back to Leliana. “For the record, I was talking about warm things, trying to keep our minds off the cold.”

Leliana had seen the scrapes and abrasions on his back as he had stood up. She suppressed the wince when he turned back towards her, knowing it looked worse than it was, would be easily taken care of by a healing potion, and probably didn’t hurt very much thanks to the numbing cold. She handed him his cloak, guessing he was to proud to allow her to put it over his shoulders for him; she was right. “Well, let’s get you inside and find some of those warm things for the two of you, shall we? I’ve already sent word to Mother Giselle, letting her know what’s happened. She asked that both of you come straightaway to the Chantry.”

“I can manage well enough at my tent,” he tried to deflect the offer, but a shiver chose that moment to race through his body. Damn, but he was cold, and though his tent was closer, the Chantry would be far less drafty. Besides, his mantle was quickly getting soaked through, barley able to keep the gentle breeze from feeling like a frigid gale.

“That was an order, Commander. As Left Hand of the Divine, I technically outrank you.”

“Yes, well,” he decided to let her think she had won, “I shall, of course, obey your orders.” He looked over to the Herald, needing to make sure she was still alive—after all he had done to save her. She was being propped up between two scouts, barely able to keep her feet, wrapped practically head-to-toe in several cloaks. As if she had felt his eyes on her, her soft brown eyes lifted to meet his cool hazel gaze.

Then he sneezed.

* * *

Some days, she couldn’t believe her new life.

Some days, she would sit and smile bemusedly while thinking of all the powerful people who treated her as an equal, or run her fingers over her expensive and well-made new armor, or simply sit and stare at and smell the food they set before her. Such riches had always been unimagined before…

This evening became one of those times. She’d had a bath, a real bath—a large copper tub, steaming hot water, scented-oils-and-perfumed-soap bath. She smiled at the memories: at the aromatic steam she inhaled through her nostrils; at the large soft towels warming beside the fire; at the thick and warm clothing the servants had left for her. She rubbed her hand down her sleeve, amazed at how soft the wool felt, and shook her head.

This new life was like a dream.

She snuggled in a little more on the cushioned chair, the goblet warm in her hands, the fire dancing merrily in the hearth. It was getting easier, she realized, to forget her life before and live this new life. Even with the mark and the rifts and having to learn how to fight… Even with the danger, this life was preferable to her old life. Yet a little voice in the back of her head reminded her how easily it could all fall apart. Like this evening, when Mother Giselle had suggested that someone should remain to help her in her bath. That was something she could never allow, or they would see her scars, not just the ones on her face, but the other scars. If anyone ever saw them, they would know who—what she had been, and this new life would turn sour.

She’d been lucky so far, stupidly lucky. When she first woke up—finding herself in chains, her body weak with sickness and pain, Cassandra and Leliana questioning her and demanding answers—she had answered them truthfully. She didn’t remember what had happened, how the explosion had occurred, how she’d gotten the mark, any of it. They took that to mean she couldn’t remember anything about her past, that she had amnesia, and she did nothing to correct their misassumption. She didn’t know them, had received threats of chains and trials and sentencing, and it was so much easier to remain silent and allow them to believe what they wished. Then things had changed. Cassandra had given her the opportunity to become part of the Inquisition and help them save Thedas, and she began to make friends: Solas, Varric, Josephine, The Iron Bull, Sera…

Sera, her foggy mind mused, what had happened between her and Sera? She took a healthy swallow of the warm drink, rich with spices. Sera was a distraction, a cherished break from the stress of being Andraste’s Herald. She was someone who never judged her, someone who treated her as if she were a normal person and not a Herald or a Worship. That was priceless to her. And the fact that something happened this afternoon to change that, something that she couldn’t understand, ate at her heart like a cancer.

She was so caught up in thinking about Sera, she automatically gave permission to whomever had just started knocking on her door.

Cullen thought he heard someone call out, “Come,” from the other side of the door, but the voice was muffled and the word hard to make out. He opened the door only far enough to stick his head in and inquire, “Hello?”

The small room looked empty. Not disused, there were a few damp places on the floor where spilled bathwater had been hastily mopped up, and the fire had been in the hearth long enough to warm the entire room. Yet there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. He cleared his throat and shifted around the edge of the door, making sure no one was standing behind it, before he asked, “Madam Herald?”

There was the creak of furniture, and a moment later he saw her, or rather her eye, peeking around the corner of one of two large chairs in front of the fire. “Commander Cullen. Come in. Please.” That single brown eye studied him as he inclined his head, stepping the rest of the way into the room and closing the door. Suddenly this seemed like a bad idea. He had only wanted to check on her, to make sure she was recovering; she had nearly drowned, and he had nearly joined her. But standing in that room, the door firmly closed behind him, all alone with her, he felt… awkward.

“I, er, came by, to see if you, that is, how you were doing. Recovering, and the like.”

The eye blinked at him. Then amazingly a bit more appeared, a bang-covered forehead and a sliver of a pink-tinged cheek, as she leaned a little further around her chair. “Oh, ah, very well, thanks to you. Um, please, sit down, enjoy the fire. Have you, ah, I mean, have some of this,” she gestured to the pitcher on the table between the chairs, belatedly remembering her manners.

“Oh! Yes, quite, thank you,” he stuttered, his feet heading for the chair opposite hers as if they had a will of their own. And, apparently, they did. “Er,” he eloquently hunted around for a topic of conversation, “What’s in the pitcher?”

“No idea,” she sighed, turning away to stare at the fire. “But it’s very heavily spiced, and very warm. I mean, it makes me feel very warm. Help yourself; there’s more in there than I can drink.”

He filled the extra goblet and took an appreciative sniff. “Ah, mulled wine. Very good for warming both body and soul. You should finish your glass; it’ll keep you from catching a chill.”

“I’ll try to,” she vaguely promised. Truthfully, she was feeling a little too warm all of a sudden, and not all of it was from the fire. It was also getting harder to think, her thoughts fuzzy and flitting from subject to subject. Maybe she’d had enough to drink, now that she knew it was wine. She balanced the goblet carefully on the arm of her chair and cast about for a distraction. She turned her head slightly to look at him, peeking between her long brown locks, shiny and soft after being cleaned and freshly brushed.

Cullen sat straight in his chair, his back off of the cushions, his goblet held in one hand while the other picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve. She studied his profile, the hard angles of his cheekbones, the low eyebrows that made it seem he was always either serious or irritated, the shape of his lips and the slightest hint of a dimple on his chin. She had never noticed that dimple before, as he usually had at least a days’ growth of stubble claiming his cheeks. He was freshly shaven now, however, his skin still slightly pink from the hot water and the razor, so the dimple could be seen.

His hair was different, too. The short blond strands weren’t their normal thick waves but a tight curl—even going so far as to appear frizzy around his ears and at the back of his neck. It was… different, cute, endearing to see him like this, like she was being shown a side to him very few had ever seen. It made that warm feeling inside her grow even warmer.

“What are you staring at?”

“What?” she blinked. Suddenly she realized that he was looking at her, that he had caught her staring. Stalling for time, she took a sip of her wine before remembering she wasn’t going to have any more. “Oh, um, your hair,” she admitted. “It looks different.”

She heard a long suffering sigh fall from his lips. Curious she peeked back at him, catching him in a familiar pose, his eyes closed and one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Somehow she had known he would react that way to her comment.

“It’s just, I, yes, all right, my hair is very curly. Especially right after it’s been washed. I have something I usually put in it, to keep it under control, but that’s back in my tent, and I didn’t want to go all the way there and then come all the way back here just to check on you. I… I can’t believe I’m discussing hair products with the Herald of Andraste.” He said the last part to himself, as if she wasn’t in the room or wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Would you like to talk about something else?”

“Please.” Though his reply was short, there was an almost desperate quality to his voice.

Her brain must have shut off completely; that was the only explanation as to why she said what she said next. “Do you like girls?”

To his credit, he didn’t make a bolt for the door. “Do I… like… girls?”

“Er, yes,” she took another sip, trying to think of how to explain it. “You know, girls, with that, um, kissing, and other stuff.” She didn’t look at him, couldn’t, knowing the heat in her cheeks had to be bright enough to glow like a lantern.

“I…” he had to clear his throat, “That is… Maker, why are you asking me this?”

There was something else in his tone now, something guarded and alarmed, something that made her reconsider a few things. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to give offense, like when I asked you what you feared, implying you’re not brave. I didn’t mean to, I mean, it’s all right, if you like boys rather than girls, I’m not going to judge, I was just wondering, because of what happened today, and I thought you might be able to help…”

“Stop,” he declared, holding up his hand, palm outwards. Her words quickly faded away, hearing the tone of command in his voice and automatically following his order. When he was assured of her silence and her attention, he lowered his hand and sighed. “I can’t follow you when you talk that fast. What do you mean to ask? Exactly.”

“Exactly,” she repeated, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment. Giving a little nod when she found the right words, she lifted her face and asked him, “Well, I want to know: how should it feel to kiss a girl?”

He blinked. “You want to know…” his voice trailed away, and again he had to clear his throat. Quickly he went back over all their interactions today, but couldn’t find a cause for such a query. Yet she wasn’t waiting for him, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she gave them thought.

“Yes, it was after you slapped me, um, I mean after the spiders. Anyway, I was chasing Sera, trying to get back at her, because I was mad she scared me so badly, and I caught up with her, and after I’d tackled her, she, um, she kissed me.”

“She kissed you?” Maker, give me strength, he prayed, trying not to envision the scene as the Herald continued talking, explaining how Sera had kissed her and then talked about some mysterious tingly feeling. The vision was all to familiar, one of those images out of his nightmares, a lingering scar from his tormented past, from when the Kinloch Circle fell.

Two desire demons, taking on the forms of two young girls, putting visions in their minds…

“I’m sorry, Commander, I suppose shouldn't have brought it up. It’s only, well, I don't know what I should feel. And Sera wouldn’t tell me. I thought, maybe, you could tell me what I should be feeling, and then I could go to her and tell her that and she wouldn’t be mad at me anymore and… stuff…” The Herald sighed, “But if you don’t like girls, that’s all right, I shouldn't have brought it up…”

“Wait, just… just wait a moment.”

She stopped talking again, not because she heard the tone of command in his voice, but because she heard a much different tone. A pained tone. A desperate tone. From the sound of it, she expected to see him mortally wounded, blood flowing freely from a wound in his chest or something. But when she looked at him, she saw him sitting very still, his eyes staring at the fire, the only sign of his distress the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the goblet.

When he spoke, it came out in short bursts of words. “I don’t think I’m the one to ask. Why don’t you ask Seeker Cassandra? Or Leliana. Even Josephine.”

“Oh,” the word made a very small sound, flopping to the floor between them. She turned away once more, dropping her gaze to her own goblet, staring at the dark red liquid. “I could. I suppose I should have. It’s just, well, it’s been bothering me, and you were here, and it popped into my head, so I asked.”

The room felt small, the air was stuffy and overly warm, but he denied the urge to pull at his collar, fighting for control over his fears. Physically Cullen sat on his chair, but mentally he was lost, battling in a war that had started over a decade ago. Though the desire demons were long gone, the memories remained, the visions, the temptations. Those things weren’t physical, making them all the more difficult to defeat. And all the more harmful to his soul.

Yet he heard her, that small sound she made, like the mewl of a kitten locked outside on a stormy night. He turned towards her just as she turned away, his brows scrunched slightly, his mouth open with his silent pants. He saw her confusion and disappointment, her own mental and emotional struggles. Yes, she probably should have asked someone else, but she had asked him for help. And she was no desire demon. She was—really—just a girl, an innocent child. Her amnesia left her without a past, without the maturity she otherwise would have by now, without the ability to deal with her feelings for Sera.

“I, ah,” he paused to clear his throat again. “Well, first of all, I’d like to point out that I do have fears.” She looked up at him, one soft brown eye blinking through a light veil of hair. No, she was no desire demon sent to reopen old wounds, she was just a girl who trusted him enough to confide something very personal and confusing. He faced his own fears, his words describing his current actions as he continued. “Not of spiders, certainly. My fears are a little harder to put into words. But being brave doesn’t mean you are without fear. Being brave means doing what you must, despite being afraid. Being brave means facing your fears, not running from them.”

“You mean,” she trembled, “I should have stayed in that cave, faced those spiders?”

“Well, not necessarily, not unless you had to. If, say, there was a rift inside that cave, then yes, you’d have to face those spiders, because you have to close that rift, and the only way to that rift is through those spiders, through facing your fear. Understand?”

She nodded, hesitantly at first, then a smile brightened her eyes, still partially hidden behind her hair. “At least I’d have someone with me. I mean, if there was a rift in that cave, then I wouldn’t be going in there alone. There’d be Cassandra or Solas or someone. Right?”

Small steps, he told himself. She hadn’t quite grasped the idea, but the analogy wasn’t very accurate. He allowed her this victory, however, thinking she’d understand fully, some day if not today. He smiled back, “Right.”

She relaxed. Just a bit, a small gesture, her fingers reaching up to pull her hair a little off her face, not too far, not even behind one ear, but far enough to show a softly rounded cheek.

And the jagged scar beneath it. He’d seen the scar before, seen other scars like it, and knew how it had happened. An explosion, a piece of shrapnel thrown through the air, slicing into skin and muscle before flying away, the edges of the wound burned from the heated metal, the flap of flesh pulling back to hang away from the rest of her face…

He held her gaze, keeping his smile gentle, hoping he was encouraging her. He understood why she kept her face hidden, why she would wish to avoid the stares and comments, but there were plenty of people here with scars—even Cassandra was scarred. She shouldn’t feel so self-conscious about it.

“What was the other thing?”

“What?” he asked, coming out of his musings.

“You said there were a couple of things; first, that you had fears. I was only wondering what was second.”

“Oh, right,” he shifted in his chair, but belatedly remembered that the healing potion was still working on his back, the movement almost making him wince. “It’s, well, about kissing girls. And by the way, just for the record, I do like girls, I just don’t, ah, kiss them, very often.”

“Is it a templar thing?” she asked, “You know, like taking vows, or not being able to marry.” She was definitely warming up to him, which conversely made him want to pull away. He had to force himself to stand his ground.

“No, there’s nothing specifically against templars marrying, but there are—considerations—that need to be taken into account. Ah,” he gave a heavy sigh, “We’re getting off topic here. The second thing I was going to tell you, is this: your feelings are your own.”

Something in what he said shocked her. Or perhaps it was confusion again. She had an expression on her face, as if she couldn’t quite believe what he was saying to be true. “But,” briefly she bit at her lip, struggling to find the words, “But how will I know what to feel, how I should react, if someone doesn't tell me…”

“You feel it. From inside you. No one can tell you what to feel because your feelings come from within you, not without.” He paused, but it didn’t look like she quite understood him, yet. Praying for strength and perseverance, he forged onward. “All right. When Sera kissed you, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” she gave a little shake of her head, “I didn’t know what to do. I’d never, I mean, that had never happened to me before.”

One honey-colored eyebrow briefly flickered, as if it wanted to lift, possibly with humor. “I hardly think a few months count as your whole life.”

She realized—yet again—that she had forgotten she was supposed to be suffering amnesia. He kept talking, however, so obviously he hadn’t noticed.

“But I understand. I want you to think very hard, very carefully. Remember exactly what happened, try to picture it like it’s happening again. And ask yourself: what are you feeling?” He ignored the shaking in his hands, the irritating tickle of memory in the back of his thoughts, and kept his focus on the Herald. He would be strong. For her.

She tried. She closed her eyes and thought about it, about Sera sitting beside her, the sensation of snow melting down the small of her back, the splatter of freckles across Sera’s cheeks, the warmth of Sera’s lips against hers, how large and soft they were…

“…no…” she said, very softly. Her eyes flew wide open suddenly, startling herself as much as she did Cullen, both of them jerking back a little bit. It was a small word, not even worth half a breath, but a word she very rarely used. It held a meaning in this case that she’d hardly ever been allowed to feel before. But today she had felt it. She saw that now.

Someone wanted her to do something, and she didn’t want to do it.

And it was all right to feel that way.

Tears stung her eyes, sweeping over her so quickly and completely that several slipped out before she could duck her head and turn away. Thankfully, either Cullen didn’t notice, or he was too polite to comment. She brought a hand to her face, her hair falling forwards again, her bottom lip stuck fast between her teeth. She sat like that for quite some time, so long that Cullen began to wonder if she was awake, aside from the fact that she wasn’t leaning against anything.

The fire cracked loudly in the hearth, a log snapping in half beneath the force of the flames. Neither of them jumped at the sound, Cullen too trained and the Herald too lost within herself. After a few more moments, he decided there wasn’t much else he could do for her; it certainly seemed as if she had figured matters out for herself. He set his finished goblet on the table and cleared his throat.

“Well, I should be going. I stopped by only to see how you were doing, make sure you weren’t suffering from your, er, swim.” She didn’t respond, remaining so still he wondered if she had even heard him. He stood, the chair creaking as his weight was lifted, and gave her a short bow, not that she could see it through her hair. “Good night, Madam Herald.”

He smartly turned and stepped away. He got as far as putting his hand on the doorknob when he heard her speak. “Commander…?”

Damn, he thought to himself, he had almost made it. Squaring his shoulders he turned back towards her. She was hidden behind the back of the chair, possibly still in her earlier pose. Yet when she spoke, her voice was clearer than before. “Will I lose Sera as a friend? I mean, because I don’t feel the same way about her, as she feels about me.”

He should have walked out of there faster. “I doubt it,” he tried to reassure her. “Er, Sera strikes me as the type who, ah, likes to try a lot of different things. She was probably trying you on, like a suit of armor, to see if the two of you would fit. Together.” It was a terrible analogy, but he couldn’t think of anything better on such short notice.

Apparently it worked. He heard a soft sound, barely loud enough to reach his ears over the crackling of the fireplace, but it was a laugh. “Yes, she would do that.”

“You really like her, don’t you?” Despite himself, he was curious—and tired, and distracted with a headache, and the question had slipped out before he could think. He couldn’t take the words back now, could only stand there and wait for the answer.

“Yes,” the Herald sighed, “Not the way she wants, but…” There was a creak, and a wedge of her face appeared around the side of the chair. “You know, she’s the only one who doesn’t call me ‘Herald’ or ‘Madam’ or ‘Your Worship.’ Even The Iron Bull calls me ‘Boss.’ But Sera,” she paused to bite her lip, “Sera calls me by other names. She teases me. She treats me like a person, an equal, just an ordinary girl.” She rubbed the still hidden side of her face against the chair, as if she was scratching an itch. “It’s hard, being this Herald everyone calls me. I don’t know somedays if I’m doing it right. And other days, I forget the real me, I get so caught up in trying to be this ‘Herald’ person. But Sera’s constant. She never bows to me, or gives me more credit than I deserve. She even punches me sometimes. I need that—I need someone—to remind me that I’m just a person underneath it all. Does that make any sense?”

Cullen gave it some serious thought. Here was this girl: who sat before him curled up in a chair, who had no idea who she was or where she came from, who suddenly woke up one day to find herself the most important woman in all of Thedas… “I think I can concede the point, that you find something useful and worthwhile in Sera. For that reason, I’ll attempt to tolerate her mischief.”

“Thank you.”

“But please,” and here his voice sounded like he was honestly begging, “Please don’t follow her over any more half-frozen lakes, or anything else dangerous, for that matter. The Inquisition can afford to lose her; we can’t afford to lose you.”

He was serious, she realized. Sera was expendable; she was not. She couldn’t answer him, however, nor did he wait for an answer, turning and reaching for the doorknob again.

“Commander.”

He hesitated, but again he forced himself to face her. “Yes, Madam Herald.”

She blinked at the change in his tone. Swallowing, she said very quietly, “Thank you. For saving my life. That’s twice now you’ve risked your neck to save mine.”

He glanced off to the side a moment before he could answer. “As I said, you are the most important person to the Inquisition, whether you’re comfortable with that fact or not. Good night, Herald.”

This time he had the door yanked open before she could return his well-wishes.

“Oh!” There was a surprised squeak from out in the hall. The Herald craned her neck, trying to see past Cullen’s thick frame, but from the voice she knew who was standing there. “Didn’t expect to find you here. Thought you’d be wanting to warm up a bit. Or were you, eh? Eh?”

“Sera,” he said the name as an exasperated sigh, “What do you want?”

“Just got back to Haven when I heard what happened. Came by to see if my friend was all right, after the day she’s had. Looks like you already took care of her.”

He stared at her hard, one of his best glares, but she didn’t flinch. “I honestly don’t know what she sees in you,” he muttered, stepping out of the room and stomping down the hall, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor.

Sera giggled. “Always fun, that one. Already wound up so tight, all it takes is a little twist,” she made the gesture with her hands, “And he’s ready to raise the white flag. Or did he raise something else?”

“Sera!” the Herald scolded, feeling her cheeks burning, hoping it was due to the wine. “We were talking. That’s all and you know it!”

She made a knowing little humming sound, closing the door as she entered. “Sure, and that wasn’t fancy-shmancy wine I smelled on his breath.” She saw the Herald’s cheeks grow even redder, heard her flustered sputtering, and decided her friend could handle one more barb. “Don’t mind me. Just jealous that I didn’t think to try that first.”

“Sera…” her voice was strangled.

The quirky little elf tilted her head, her eyes calculating. “Hang on. You’re really flustered by this. By him. Aren’t you?”

It was useless, but she denied it. “Commander Cullen saved my life today. I feel gratitude towards him. That’s all.”

“Pfft, whatever,” Sera raised her hands in surrender, coming closer to the Herald’s chair. “So, ah, about today, you and me, we’re good, right? Nothing weird or anything, hanging between us?”

The Herald smiled. “No, Sera, no hard feelings. I do like you, but as a friend, nothing more.”

“That’s fine,” Sera readily agreed, helping herself to the chair and wrinkling her nose at the pitcher. “I was curious, you know, because I think you’d be a pretty handful, well, two of them.” She cupped her hands in front of her own chest, making another rude gesture. It got the Herald to laugh, and blush again. “But I understand. You prefer the cock to the hen. No worries.”

“Good,” the Herald sighed, for the first time that evening feeling like things might work out fairly well.

“Didn’t think you’d go for a Mabari lapdog…”

“Seeeerrrrraaaa!!!!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure how much of a close friend Sera was going to be for the Herald. I wanted Sera in the story, but was fairly sure I wouldn’t be able to do her accent, so I figured it’d be better not to use her than to screw her up. But as I was writing this, I saw her potential grow. She is after all a very important character. She keeps the Herald grounded, normal, and (if you’ll excuse the term) human (or elven/dwarven/qunarian/whatever). Every Caesar needs someone to whisper in their ear: “Remember, thou art mortal…” So, Sera’s in (yay); and I hope you can forgive me when I screw up her lines :’D


	3. A Leaping Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, this is extremely late. I have nothing to say in my defense, other than claiming a massive case of writer’s block. You know how it is: you’ve got it all in your head, how the scene will unfold, who will say what and when, but when you try to put it down on the page, the words simply won’t come. *sigh*
> 
> Oh, well, at least it’s done…

Cullen’s boots pounded solidly on the chantry floor, venting his strong emotions across the stone tiles. The air echoed reassuringly with the crisp and purposeful sound, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of Sera’s inane giggle or the Herald’s frustrated groans that were able to penetrate the closed door. The girls had obviously—and very quickly—cleared up whatever trouble had occurred between them and were back to being fast friends. Now, if only he could reach the main door before Mother Giselle spotted him, he would be able to escape the stuffy confines of the chantry. His hand turned the latch, his mind already at his tent, with only the canvas between himself and fresh air…

…and only Varric between himself and the outside. He stared in consternation for a moment at the form framed in the doorway, his bid for freedom thwarted by a man half his height. He watched as the dwarf’s face lit up, his broad mouth beaming a smile even as he started speaking.

“Commander!” He stopped as suddenly as he started, his eyes wide as they took in the frizzled edges of Cullen’s hair. Cullen didn’t flinch; instead he hardened his expression as if daring Varric to comment on the uncontrolled frizz.

Varric decided to let him off the hook, this one time. “Ah, good to see you up and about. I was concerned you might be suffering some ill effects after today’s little accident.”

It took him a couple of seconds before he could answer civilly, during which time Varric took the opportunity to step inside and close the door. “I’m fine, Varric, thank you for asking. Mother Giselle gave me a clean bill of health.”

“What? Not so much as a sniffle? Nah,” Varric’s mouth twitched with anticipation over the approaching jibe, “I doubt there’s a bug or virus out there that would dare infect you. You’d probably glare it to death.”

Cullen resisted the urge to sigh, trying to plan a course around him to reach the door. “Indeed. Was there anything else, or could I return to my tent?” Mother Giselle had insisted he spend the night in the chantry away from drafts, but the room he’d been given was so small and the heated air so stuffy… He needed the openness tonight, especially after his conversation just now with the Herald.

“Actually, there is…” Varric’s voice was barely above a whisper, a low sort of gravelly hum that Cullen might have missed if he hadn’t been watching Varric’s face and seeing his lips form the words. “No, no, Curly, just showing concern for a friend. By the way, have you seen Ruffles this evening? She wanted a few names from me, people I know in the Merchants’ Guild. I think she’s using my connections to try to beef up trade here in Haven,” he ended with a light chuckle.

“I suppose she may still be in her office…” Cullen began, wondering if he had misheard those muttered words, as Varric seemed to be there for someone else. Then Cassandra entered the chantry, her scowl as dark as her hair. She absently nodded to them, hardly giving a pause, before stalking down the hallway towards the war room.

Maker’s breath, Cullen thought to himself, there is something going on. He briefly entertained one final thought of escape, before he set aside his selfish desires and faced the problem at hand. “Er, I could walk with you, to her office. Come to think of it, there’s a question I have for her, er, regarding a reliable source of supplies, er, and the like.”

Varric tried not to wince, Cullen’s attempt at subtlety was so painful and embarrassing. Though he was fairly sure no one in the chantry was paying them undue attention, he didn’t want to take chances. What he’d seen this afternoon was not only worrisome, but potentially dangerous. “After you, Commander.”

They started down the hall, Varric chatting about people and places in Kirkwall they might both remember, though truthfully Cullen never got out much in the ten years he lived there. Even when he did leave the Gallows, it was for duty, not pleasure. So, no, he didn’t remember the little stall in the back corner of the Hightown Market that sold those vests with the cleverly hidden pockets. And the only time he had ever—EVER!—entered the Blooming Rose had been to question the, er, workers regarding a missing Templar recruit…

“Am I boring you, Curly?” Varric asked dryly.

Cullen gave a little cough, somewhat chagrined to have been caught yawning. “No, excuse me, Varric, but I am a bit tired after everything that’s happened today.”

“Well, I’ll try not to keep you up past your bedtime,” he murmured, yanking open the door to the war room. Cullen wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have heard him or not, and neither did he ask, following the dwarf and closing the door behind them. “Are we all here?”

“Mostly,” Cassandra answered, looking around at Leliana and Josephine, “We’re only waiting on Solas.”

“He won’t be coming to this meeting,” Varric’s voice remained uncharacteristically dark, due to both his peevishness with Cullen and the seriousness of the situation, “For reasons that will become obvious.”

“That’s rather ominous,” Leliana hummed, arms crossed and a hip cocked.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, our little Herald nearly died this afternoon!” As if he finally caught himself acting irritated, he forced out a bit of a jibe, “Or would have, if it wasn’t for the efforts of her self-appointed knight in shining armor.”

Adversely, Cullen felt relief when Varric’s sense of humor was restored, even if he was the butt of the joke.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Cassandra may have sounded a bit challenging, but she always came across short and surly. Varric, however, was ready to rise to the challenge.

“A mage was involved.”

The silence that met his statement was like a physical blow. The air became electrified, instantly banishing any ill feelings over the inconvenient meeting. Varric seemed to enjoy the dramatic reaction. Now that he had everyone’s attention, he relaxed and leaned against the armrest of a chair, tilting his head to look the others in the eyes. And waited.

“Are you sure?” Leliana was the first to break the silence, not because she doubted Varric, but because she wanted to know the facts for herself, and draw her own conclusions. “What makes you say that? Did you see someone?”

“Well, no,” he played his part, drawing out the sounds and building the anticipation, “Not exactly. I mean, I saw something, not someone.”

“Out with it,” Cassandra demanded, her accent thickening with her frustration.

Varric sighed, deciding he couldn’t push the others too far, at least not tonight. And not where the Herald was concerned. Yet it was hard not to indulge—just a little—in theatrics when the situation arose. “It was this afternoon, right before the Herald’s latest mishap. I was up near the tavern, listening to Solas and Vivienne… shall we say… discuss the finer points of a mage’s responsibility to society. The conversation was getting a little too warm, so I decided to take a walk and let the two of them work it out for themselves.” Josephine gave a small cough at this, but didn’t comment. “I went down to the trebuchets, where I had a good view of the lake. And the bridge that leads… led to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“You had a view of everything?” Josephine sought clarification.

“Sure, for the most part. I saw Sera come running across the ice, the Herald hesitating on the far side like she didn’t want to follow, the scouts shouting and waving their arms at her. Then she—the Herald—decided to start out over the ice. There was no way she was going to catch up with Sera; that little Buttercup is too swift on her feet.” He almost sounded prideful, but quickly went back to his narration. “Sera came off the ice not too far from me. She looked pretty upset, but I’d already had an earful listening to Solas and Vivienne, so I didn’t stop her to ask what was the matter.”

“It wasn’t relevant,” Cullen found himself answering, absently stifling another yawn. The others looked to him with varying reactions, from Varric’s slightly miffed expression over his interruption, to Leliana’s suggestively cocked eyebrow. He cleared his throat, knowing he’d have to elaborate, and not sure how much he could repeat. “I mean, er, I was talking, just now, with the Herald, about this afternoon. I wanted to make sure she was all right after her ordeal. She told me, that is, she and Sera had a, er, private discussion. Nothing serious. And not in any way related to what happened.”

“What did they talk about?” Cassandra pressed.

“It was private,” he repeated through clenched teeth, pressing his hand flat against his thigh to keep it from trembling. “If you must know, ask the Herald yourself.”

“We’re getting off topic here,” Leliana broke in. “What happened next, Varric? What is it that makes you think the Herald’s assailant is a mage?”

“As I was saying,” he shot a glare at Cullen, warning him to keep quiet this time, “After Sera got off the ice, the Herald was about halfway across. I can’t be sure, but when she tripped that first time, I think I saw something flash over by the bridge. At the time I wasn’t worried about the Herald; Sera had made it across all right. Besides, Curly was racing out to her rescue, and I was too far away to do any good anyway. So I looked back at the bridge and saw another flash from beneath one of the arches,” he paused for emphasis, “Just before the ice broke.”

After three heartbeats, Leliana again was the first to speak. “What kind of flash?”

Varric shrugged. “You know, the kind of flash that’s used in magic. Like sunlight reflecting off of a gemstone in a staff. Or maybe it was the magic itself, sparking off or something. I didn’t know for sure, but the timing of the flashes and the Herald’s… difficulties were too coincidental.

“I went to take a look. There was a crowd gathered around the lake by then, and it took a while to make my way through it. By the time I got to the bridge, to the arch where I had seen the flash, the mage was already gone. Left some footprints, though, large enough to be male. There were also indentations in the snow, round holes just about the right size for a staff, or a cane I suppose…”

“Anything else?” Leliana pressed. “Did you see anyone coming from that direction? Anyone in the crowd around the lake who looked suspicious?”

“Hang on there, Nightingale,” he held up his hands placatingly. “I did the best I could. It was kinda chaotic for a time, everyone worried about the Herald and just standing around, watching you and your scouts pull those two to shore. I wanted to stay and make sure she was all right too, even though I knew I had to take a look at that arch. But I didn’t notice anyone coming back from the bridge. Nor could I track the footprints very far. Whoever was beneath that arch blended his tracks in with the heaviest tracks already on the road. Essentially, he disappeared.”

Leliana took the lead again. “I understand why you think the assassin is a mage,” she mused, “And I concur. It would explain quite a bit, like how those stacked crates fell on the Herald without anyone standing nearby—some sort of spell could have been cast from a distance to push the crates. But do you honestly suspect Solas? Is that why he isn’t at this meeting?”

“He's a mage, isn’t he? And he just happens to show up, right when we need him, with just the kind of information we need. Bah!” Varric scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, taking a moment to breathe deeply. When his hand fell away, there was a lingering expression of pain that faded briefly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting paranoid. But after some of the things I’ve seen, not just here but back in Kirkwall…” his voice trailed away into a shrug. “I guess I just don’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.”

Cullen was uneasy, having seen one or two of those things himself, such as what had happened to his commanding officer…

“There is one way to eliminate Solas from the pool of suspects,” offered Josephine. Varric’s eyes were hopeful as he looked up to her. “Even if he somehow managed to slip away from Vivienne right after you did, even if he somehow managed to get around you and see an opportunity to eliminate the Herald, even if he somehow managed to race to the bridge and find cover beneath one of the arches,” she paused to steadily return his gaze, a slight twinkle in her eye, “He is an elf. I’ve noticed, even with all the snow here at Haven, his feet remain bare. His footprints would have toe-prints, would they not?”

The change in Varric was heartening. He positively beamed at her, jumping away from the chair to take her hands in his. “You’re right!” he chuckled. “You’re absolutely right! The footprints under the bridge were made by someone wearing boots; and Chuckles never wears boots. Ever. Oh, you’ve done my heart good, little lady. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she blushed, overwhelmed by his exuberance.

“You’re rather relieved that the assassin isn’t Solas,” Cassandra stated flatly, “Considering a moment ago he was your main suspect.”

“If it’s one thing I’ve learned,” he started, his voice sobering a little, “It’s that anyone can betray you, even the ones you trust the most. The ones you should be able to trust no matter what.” He tried damned hard not to think of his brother. “You bet I’m glad I don’t have to suspect a friend.”

“All right,” Leliana stepped forward, uncrossing her arms to lean over the table, “Allow me to sum up what we know about our would-be assassin: he is male, a mage, and not elven.”

“We can assume he’s not dwarven,” Cassandra said, “Since we’re assuming he’s a mage.”

“And we can rule out qunari,” Varric added. “The prints were too small to be one of those.”

Leliana nodded in agreement. “Very well. We are looking for a male human mage. That does narrow the list of suspects considerably.”

“But that list is growing,” Cullen broke off a yawn midstream to interject. “Every day, more and more mages are coming here, everyone who’s dissatisfied with the war, hoping that they can find sanctuary. And at the Herald’s behest!”

“I don’t think the newer arrivals should be suspect…”

“You never know,” he broke over Cassandra’s objection. “The assassin could have been in hiding somewhere nearby, thinking that he might stand out as a mage here in Haven. But now that there are other mages, he decided to join them and mingle with the crowd.”

“That’s a valid concern,” Leliana allowed, wrestling for control of the discussion, “But unfounded. The truth is, we have no way of knowing which male human mage is the assassin. Yet at least now we know to watch these particular mages. Commander,” she turned to look him directly in the eye, “My scout trainees are mostly busy watching the Herald. Could you assign a few of your recruits to patrol the streets? Especially wherever the Herald happens to be around any mages. If they could be former templars…?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t have enough men,” Cullen admitted darkly, “Not if you want to exploit a templar’s ability to cancel out magic. I could spare a couple, assign them as a sort of honor guard for whenever she’s here in Haven, but I’m afraid…” he paused to exhale, giving his head a little shake. “No, too many of them still see every mage as a potential demon possession waiting to happen, especially when free of a Circle. There are one or two cool-headed enough to be tolerant, but I need them to train the others, to set an example of what we’re trying to accomplish here!”

He was tired. He was too damn tired. That’s why his voice cracked. That’s why his fist struck the table. And that’s why he couldn’t stop yawning. He brought his fist up in front of his face, and when he muttered an apology, no one asked if it was for the outburst or the yawn. “But the Herald’s life is important, of course. I suppose, under the guise of an honor guard, I could assign one of the more tolerant recruits, pair him with a moderate, and hope for the best. At the very least, they should be able to protect her from this assassin, when she’s not chasing after Sera, that is.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Leliana inclined her head.

“That brings up another disturbing thought,” this time Cassandra’s voice grew dark, “What about Sera?”

“What about Sera?” Cullen repeated, feeling thick-headed.

“She was with the Herald just when this mage, whoever he is, was waiting under that bridge. Perhaps it was simply coincidence again, or perhaps the mage hired Sera to purposefully lure the Herald away from others, out over the lake, where he could break the ice and drown her.”

“Ah, crap,” Varric sighed, his face getting another pained expression. “Just when I was starting to feel hopeful again, you had to go and ruin it, didn’t you.”

“Coincidence or purpose,” Leliana again played mediator, absently thinking that it should have been Josephine, “As far as Sera’s implication is concerned, we have no proof. We could watch her as well, but I fear we are quickly running out of eyes.”

“Oh, Maker,” Cullen mumbled, “She’s with the Herald. Right now.”

“What?” demanded Cassandra.

“Sera is in with the Herald,” he repeated. “After I stopped by to, er, make sure the Herald would recover, as I was leaving, Sera was arriving. I didn’t think anything of it. The Herald is friends with her, so I left them alone together, to discuss some… matters.”

Cassandra looked like she wanted to ask, but Leliana spoke first. “I don’t think we need to worry, not tonight. Even if Sera is working for this mage—of which we have no proof—he wouldn’t have her do anything right here in the chantry under our very noses. Besides, the Herald is probably fast asleep by now.”

“Oh? Why would you say that?” Varric asked.

Leliana smiled coyly, one corner of her mouth lifting, the tone of her voice shining with the smile. “Because I saw Mother Giselle slip a sleeping draught into the mulled wine she brought to the Herald. If she had so much as a glass, she should slumber through the night.”

“Maker,” again Cullen cursed.

“What is it now?” Varric’s suspicions grew as he saw Cullen’s face redden.

“I had some of it.” He paused to swallow, not daring to look at the others, fearing they would be laughing at him. “When I spoke with the Herald, she invited me to sit down. She offered a glass of the mulled wine, and I accepted. Manners, you know.”

“Of course,” Varric hummed agreement.

“I was only being polite.”

“Sure, sure,” Varric patted him on the back. “At least that explains your yawning.”

Leliana managed to gain enough control over her humor to pull her hand away from her face before speaking. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Commander. The Herald is half your size; I’m sure the draught won’t work as strongly on you, as it will on her.”

A sound came from Josephine, something like a strangled titter or a muffled giggled. Cullen stubbornly kept his eyes away from her, or any of them. Now that he knew about the draught, the tiredness seemed to intensify.

Varric, surprisingly, came to his rescue, sort of. “Come on, Curly. I’ll walk you to your tent. Let’s not keep you from your beauty rest.”

“I’ll be fine, Varric,” he quipped, straightening his shoulders and pushing aside the fatigue. He wasn’t about to allow anyone to send him off to bed like an errant little boy. “I’m merely tired, not on the verge of passing out.”

“Actually, if no one has any other business to discuss,” Leliana looked around at each of them in turn, “Then perhaps we should call it a night. We’ve done all we can, for now. Commander Cullen will assign an honor guard for the Herald, and the rest of us will watch for any strange behavior from the mages.”

“And I’ll keep an eye on Sera,” Varric volunteered, “Just in case.”

The meeting broke up after that, Varric and Cassandra the first out the door. Cullen wasn’t far behind them, Leliana and Josephine remaining for a while, no doubt to gossip. At that point in time, he couldn’t be bothered to care what or whom they talked about. His steps were growing heavy and his shoulders were wanting to sag once more. He needed to get to bed before he fell asleep on his feet. Out in the main hall he caught Mother Giselle’s eye, saw her disapproving shake of her head, but he resolutely turned away from her and headed for the main door.

Again, it seemed fate would not allow him to escape. He had seen Varric and Cassandra reach the outside, seen the door start to swing closed, hastened his steps to catch the door before it latched shut…

“Oi, Jackboot!”

…and that was as far as he got. He stopped walking, straightened himself up even more, and very, very slowly turned on the spot to pierce Sera with a hardened glare.

She was unperturbed by his expression, coming right up to him and cocking her head in a cheeky manner. “I need you. Or rather, Harry needs you. Now.” She grabbed his hands and started tugging on him, but he remained immobile. “You’re the one with the right equipment. I mean, I could do it, you know, but it would be messy. Much easier if you could.”

He finally managed to get his hands out of hers. “I never have half a clue what you’re talking about,” he tried to deflect, fearful that he did indeed understand her meaning.

“Some days I swear no one but me talks plain, or understands what plain is. Listen, I need your help, right? These things here,” she reached out and took hold of the biceps of one arm, giving them a substantial pinch. “These muscly things. I don’t got them, see?” Her hand went to her own bicep, the fingers almost wrapping completely around. “So if I try to get her into bed, I might drop her on her head. You won’t.”

Cullen was a little stunned, enough so that Sera finally managed to get him moving and into the Herald’s room. “You want me to…”

“…Get her into bed. Right. Seeing as how she fell asleep in her chair. And I can’t lift her. And you were the first one I saw what could.” Truthfully, the Herald had fallen asleep quite a while ago. She had stood at the door, peeking out at those who passed by; and though there had been others she could have asked for help, she had been waiting specifically for Cullen. Sera had seen how her friend reacted to him, and had decided to try her hand at a bit of matchmaking.

Cullen wanted to laugh. Or swallow. Or sit down and simply stare at Sera. He settled for a heavy sigh, before walking around the Herald’s chair. She was there, just as Sera described, her empty goblet still in her hand and threatening to fall. He removed the goblet from danger first, and noted the Herald hardly stirred. As he leaned over her, he tried not to notice the heady fumes of the wine on her breath, or the subtle scent of something floral that hung about her like perfume.

He inserted one arm between her shoulders and the chair, the second scooping up her legs at the knees. He straightened, and was amazed at how light the Herald felt in his arms. He should have noticed it before, he supposed, but he had been preoccupied with other matters, like getting the both of them off of the dangerously thin ice. Now, however, he took half a moment to hold her, to settle her against his chest, to feel her—in her sleep—snuggle her head into the corner of his neck and shoulder.

The partial moment was over all too quickly, Sera’s babbling tumbling into it like a cascading waterfall. He ignored her as best he could and took the few steps over to the bed. He set the Herald down gently, almost reluctantly, allowing her to roll onto her side away from him. Sera swept in, covering her with a blanket as Cullen pulled away.

“Right. Job’s done. Nice and proper.” Sera smirked up at him, “I guess I know who to come to, the next time Harry needs to be bedded, eh?” She dug an elbow into his ribs.

He had had enough. “Let’s leave the Herald to her rest, shall we?”

Sera pouted, fairly prettily with her full lips, but Cullen hardly noticed, his mind still full of that soft and flowery scent. He took Sera by the elbow that had poked him and steered her towards the door. “Good night, Sera.”

“All right, all right, I get it. Let sleeping Heralds lie, or something.” She pulled out of his grip as they entered the main hall, shooting a glance over her shoulder as she rubbed her elbow. “I called it, though. Mabari lapdog.”

Before he could even muster the energy required to try to be curious about what that cryptic response could mean, Mother Giselle bore down on him. “Commander Cullen, you should be resting.”

“I was intending to,” he turned to face her, allowing Sera to slip away, “Back in my tent…”

“Back in your room,” she countered, her stern face brooking no argument.

Cullen glanced towards the main door just in time to see Sera disappear into the night. He was stiff and sore, half-drowned, half-drugged, befuddled by Sera, teased by Varric, worried by mysterious assassins… Maker’s breath, he only wanted the day to be over.

“Yes, fine,” he gave in, figuring at this point, one bed was just as good as another. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he headed towards the room he’d been given for the night, Mother Giselle dogging his heels lest he escape.

* * *

She was smiling inside her helmet.

It was her favorite helmet, and not just because Varric had given it to her. He had the helmet made specifically for her, similar to a skirmisher’s hat, with a few modifications suggested by Varric. The toughened leather that covered her whole head was made from bear hide and cushioned on the inside with lustrous cotton. For added protection, small obsidian plates covered the sides and back, reminding her of dragon scales. But most importantly there were cheek guards that could be tied closed over the front of her face, leaving only her eyes showing.

It was her favorite helmet because it hid every secret.

But she wasn’t smiling because she was wearing her favorite helmet. She was smiling because it was a beautiful day. She was out of Haven, exploring the Hinterlands, Cassandra and The Iron Bull and Varric in tow. Vivienne had come along, too, and though she would have preferred Solas to be there, she didn’t mind traveling with the lady mage. She liked Vivienne—she generally liked everyone—and even if she didn’t see why it was important for her to stand up straight, or lift her chin when she spoke, or wear well-made clothing and armor…

Well, she tried to see the good in everybody. She supposed Vivienne had her reasons for fussing over her appearance, so she took in all her advice and tried to follow it. She really did try. And within her helmet, she felt secure enough to look up at the others when they talked.

She had even felt confident enough to speak with the Grey Warden, when they finally found him. That’s why they had come to the Hinterlands, to find this Warden, Blackwall, and ask him about the other Wardens. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known the others were missing, having been out of touch for the past several months while he searched for recruits. He hadn’t even heard of the Herald of Andraste—a refreshing change for her!—though he had seen the Breach. So she had stood there with her shoulders back, her chin lifted, looking him in the eye while she explained what had happened and what the Inquisition was trying to do, and amazingly he had agreed to join them.

He was her first recruit. Oh, sure, others had joined the Inquisition already, but not because of her. The Iron Bull and his Chargers had sought them out. So had Vivienne and Sera. But she had searched for Blackwall, she had talked with him, and she had convinced him to join their cause and throw the weight of the Grey Wardens behind the Inquisition. Well, all right, only one Warden, but it was enough to give the Inquisition access to the Wardens’ treaties, and that was also very important.

And she had done that.

It was a very beautiful day.

“Watch your step,” Blackwall said, his hand reaching out to take her elbow and steady her while they traversed a rocky slope.

“Oh, ah, thank you,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn with chagrin having been caught daydreaming. Another reason to love her helmet. After gaining the top of the hill he let go, somewhat quickly in her opinion, but she tried not to take it personally. After all, they had only just met, and Blackwall seemed a very solitary man; he was probably even less used to dealing with people than she was, or had been, before she became the Herald.

A ghostly flicker of memory sent a shiver down her spine, her former life becoming more like an old nightmare, haunting when remembered but easily pushed aside in the full light of day. She cast about for a topic of conversation, something to banish the chill, and saw the abandoned campsite. “Looks like someone was here recently.”

Blackwall hadn’t noticed her shiver, already having seen the camp. “Yes,” he answered simply, heading towards the fire pit.

“Mages or templars?” Cassandra asked, beginning to look around for clues.

“Templars,” Varric answered, holding up a whetting stone. “Unless mages have taken to sharpening their staffs.”

“Doubtful,” Vivienne sniffed. “Much easier to conjure a sword.”

“If you’re a Knight Enchanter,” Varric agreed, giving her a bow. “But ordinary mages might think differently.”

“Madam Herald,” Blackwall called to her, and she left Varric to his teasing Vivienne. Blackwall was kneeling by the pit, studying the ring of stones and the glowing embers within.

“Yes?” she asked, kneeling beside him.

“You see this?” his gloved hand pointed to the embers. “The ashes are fresh, still warm. Whoever they were, they were here this morning. I’d even hazard a guess that they left in a hurry.”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to reason out for herself why he thought that. Her face brightened suddenly, but even that was hidden by the helmet. “Oh! Because the fire wasn’t put out properly. I can see where a single boot scuffed the ground, knocking one of the stones into the fire along with some dirt, but not enough to put it completely out.”

Bull laughed, a deep and hearty sound, and there was a distinct shade of fondness in his voice when he spoke. “She catches on quick, doesn’t she?”

Blackwall leaned back to look up at him. “That she does,” he said almost deadpan. She had a suspicion, that from him a comment like that was high praise. “Though she needs more practice with that bow.”

Just as quickly her spirits plummeted. “I’ve been practicing,” she defended herself, something she wouldn’t have dared to do only a few months ago. “Varric has taught me a lot. So has Sera.”

“But you’ve had no formal training.”

Bull cleared his throat. “I think Blackwall and I should scout ahead, see if these templars are near enough to concern us. Why don’t you and the others give us a head start, say a half hour or so?”

She nodded, standing up and dusting off her knees before going over to tell Cassandra the plan.

“I said something wrong, didn’t I.” It wasn’t a question from Blackwall, just a statement of fact. “I do that. A lot.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bull reassured him as they started out, even though it was nearly impossible to tell whether or not Blackwall was being self-critical due to his taciturn manner. “Madam Herald is a special case. Not many know this, but…” he glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were far enough away not to be overheard, “She has amnesia. Poor girl can’t remember a thing, not only what happened when the Temple exploded, but anything before that. She might have studied archery for years for all we know—for all SHE knows. But she doesn’t remember it, if she had,” he ended with a sigh. The girl’s story was tragic enough to pull on anyone’s heartstrings, even a tough old bastard like himself.

“Is that why everyone calls her by her title, and not a name? I thought they were being overly respectful, like she was a noblewoman or something.”

Bull shook his head. “No. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, can’t-recall-a-damn-thing-about-her-past amnesia.”

They were quiet for a time, until Blackwall found himself asking, “So how did she end up using a bow?”

Bull ducked beneath a tree branch as they rounded another hill. “The way I heard it, from Varric so the tale might be a bit exaggerated, it happened about three days after the explosion. Seeker Cassandra was taking her to try to close the Breach. Along the way, they were ambushed by demons. Cassandra told her to stay put while she defended the two of them, but it wasn’t long before demons cut them off from each other. The Herald spotted a crate of weapons nearby, broken open somehow, but the first thing she grabbed was a bow. Said later, she didn’t want to get close to those things, because they scared her, and the bow allowed for that.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” again he deadpanned. “But she still needs more practice.”

“Looks like she might get the chance,” Bull murmured, putting a massive gray hand on Blackwall’s chest to stop him. “I think we found them.”

Blackwall didn’t mind the touch, and hunkered down in the shrubs beside the qunari. His steel-blue eyes studied the scene, no more than fifty yards distant near the edge of a cliff, his expression hidden beneath his unkempt beard. “I guess the templars left their camp in a hurry because they discovered these mages nearby.”

“Sounds about right,” Bull agreed, watching the templars and mages fight. The sounds of battle were familiar to him, comforting even, and he could feel his blood begin to sing with the tune.

Blackwall chewed on his mustache for a moment. “Think we should interrupt them, or find a way around?”

Bull smiled slightly, already knowing the answer. “The Herald will want to stop the fighting; she always hopes she can get both templars and mages to join the Inquisition. But they’ll only start fighting us as well as each other. It’ll get messy.”

Blackwall nodded. “That it will.” He tilted his head, and after a moment suggested, “We could try talking with them now. Save some time.”

Bull laughed, “And get to the fighting part before the others get here, maybe take out a few, thin the ranks…”

“I was only thinking of the Herald’s safety,” he agreed. “The less there are to fight, the less chance one of them might get in a lucky shot at her.”

“Blackwall,” Bull reached over his shoulder as he stood, taking his greataxe in both hands, “I think you and I are going to get along really well. For the Inquisition!” he yelled, charging into the fray.

Blackwall hung back a moment, thinking that the qunari had forgotten the part about asking for a truce, but then decided it didn’t matter.

The others weren’t as far behind as the two had thought. The Herald had been agitated, her emotions stirred up, first with pride over having recruited Blackwall, then with embarrassment when her skills had been criticized. She couldn’t wait the full half hour Bull had suggested, and her pace was far quicker than what was warranted. Therefore it wasn’t long before she and the others came across the skirmish. Seeing Bull and Blackwall already fully engaged and harassed by both mages and templars, Cassandra spat out a curse and drew her sword. “Stay back!” she commanded the Herald before racing ahead, Vivienne keeping pace as she conjured a spectral blade mid-stride.

Again it stung her fledgling pride. She knew she wasn’t that good with a bow and arrow, but she was getting better. Tears pushed at the edges of her eyes, threatening to fog her vision. It wasn’t fair, her always being told to stay back, don’t get hurt, hide behind that tree over there while the rest of us risk our lives…

“You all right?” Varric asked her, pausing between shots.

The Herald realized she had been standing there, the grip of her bow being wrung in her hands, while the fight went on without her. “I’m fine,” she answered, her voice sounding small and helpless to her own ears, hiding as she was inside her helmet.

Varric also heard how scared and upset she sounded. “Come on,” he suggested, nudging her with his shoulder, “Let’s go stand by those trees over there. Should provide us with good cover, while we pick off a few of the stragglers.”

Defiance swelled up within her chest; a new and heady sensation that robbed her of her common sense. She’d show Blackwall just how good she was at archery. She’d show everyone. She let Varric guide them closer to the trees near the edge of the cliff. They did have a good view of the skirmish, and having flanked both the mages and templars, they could shoot without much fear of hitting one of their own by accident. She fired several arrows, going through the steps Varric taught her: draw the bow, exhale half a breath, aim and let go, grab another arrow before bringing your hand forward…

Her movements were smooth, efficient, and her aim was reasonable, especially since everyone in front of her was an enemy. But it wasn’t enough to be notable, not to her, not something she could brag about later back at the tavern in Haven, not something that Varric would put into a story. With a determined set to her chin, she picked out the toughest mage she could see and took careful aim.

“What are you doing?” Varric asked, but too late. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the Herald hesitate, seen her crouch, seen the arrow fly as she jumped backwards… “Damn.”

It was a perfectly executed leaping shot, either due to beginner’s luck or some sort of training she couldn’t remember from her forgotten past. It was so out of the ordinary that he had to stop and admire it, turning away from the fight. He even found the time to shoot the Herald a congratulatory smile, before he was blindsided by the bolt from a lightning spell.

“Varric!”

She had performed the shot perfectly, letting loose the arrow and then jumping to a new spot so if anyone looked to see who had fired the arrow, the place it had come from would be empty. But her arrow had missed its target, catching an empty pleat in the robes of the mage. The mage turned to see who had fired the arrow, but since she had leaped clear, his eyes fell on Varric. He cast a spell, sending a bolt of lightning slamming into Varric’s broad chest, instantly paralyzing the dwarf and making him crash to the ground. The spell was so powerful, that even though she stood a couple of yards away, the force of the hit was enough to knock her off her feet. She flew through the air, narrowly missing a low-hanging tree branch. She counted herself lucky at first, until she kept falling.

Trees and battle were swept from her vision, replaced by sky and clouds. The name on her lips was as much a cry of alarm over his fate, as a plea for him to help her. She was beyond Varric’s reach, however, even if he hadn’t been hurt. She felt herself falling, taking longer and longer to land on the ground, and knew she was in trouble. Ground raced past her, seeming to slide horizontally, tantalizingly close but still out of reach. Then her leg caught on something, a loud crack stormed over her body like a physical wave of sound, and her world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly enough, this happened to me in game the very first time I tried a leaping shot. Yup, I leaped backwards right off the side of a cliff. I lived, but my companions were stuck between trying to find a way down to me, and fighting off the rest of the bad guys. Decided right then and there, it would work great in a story…
> 
> P.S. I’ve mentioned this in my other stories, but I’ll say it here in case you haven’t read those. Rest assured I never post the first part of a cliffhanger (pardon the pun) without having the second part already written and ready to post in a day or two. See you then ;D


	4. Hard Decisions

“…herald…”

The voice was faint, like it was coming from far away, across a large field or maybe the middle of a lake. It didn’t concern her, whoever was calling, whomever they were calling, as Harold wasn’t her name…

“…Herald…?”

Well, the person was persistent. She hoped this Harold-person would answer soon, she really wanted to go back to sleep. It was rare for her to get a chance to rest peacefully, without fear of being woken up by her…

“Hey, Herald? Can you hear me?”

The voice was right beside her, making her wonder how he had gotten so close so quickly. She opened her eyes, far too curious to go back to sleep, and her vision filled with the upside-down face of, “Varric?”

It was bizarre, watching relief sweep over his features, his smile looking like a frown from her perspective. “There you are, Snowdrop. She’s awake!” he lowered his face, or lifted it, to shout at someone beyond her field of vision. When he looked back at her, he was all concern. “You all right? Does anything hurt? Did you hit your head?”

Her head, she repeated to herself. “My helmet…?”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, “Still in place. Want me to take it off for you?”

“No!” she answered quickly, too quickly. She started to notice the sound of blood pounding in her ears, making her face feel flushed and her skin tight. “No,” she began again, a little softer, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Am I upside down?”

He had been messing with something around her chest, and when she spoke he pulled back to look at her. She focused a little more on his face, noting the smudges across his reddened cheeks and the way his hair looked a little crispy. She watched him lower/raise an eyebrow before he went back to tugging at her chest. “You are. Do you remember what happened?”

“Um…” she chewed on her lower lip, trying to think, trying to remember, but her mind felt like it was stuck in thick muck. She had no idea how she ended up wherever she was, or why Varric looked like he got a little too close to a bonfire.

“It’ll come to you,” he reassured her, thinking she might become upset over losing even more of her memory. “Important thing is, you didn’t forget me, right?”

She smiled at him, letting go of her lip to do so, “Right.”

He paused, his smile fading as he held her gaze steadily. “All right now, Snowdrop…”

“Snowdrop?” she interrupted, confused.

Varric shrugged. “I’m trying out a nickname for you. Calling you ‘Madam Herald’ all the time is making my jaw hurt. Now, we’re going to start lifting you up here in a moment. If anything hurts, shout out, all right? We might not have a choice, but I’d rather you don’t get more hurt.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

Varric gave her one more encouraging smile, then looked back up/down at the others. “Start hauling on the rope. Slowly!”

She got an impression of déjà vu, that this had happened to her before, recently, only it was with Commander Cullen instead of Varric…

He saw the pain hit her before she cried out, and was already signaling the others to stop pulling. “Hold it! Hold it! Tell me where it hurts.”

“My leg,” she gasped, trying hard not to cry, not to scream, making noise only brought more pain, more blood, more suffering…

No, she mentally shook herself. That was her old life, before the Breach, before she became the Herald. That life was over. Now she could cry if she wanted to, and she wanted to very, very much. But Varric was looking at her with such care and concern, she didn’t want him to worry about her, to feel bad, it hadn’t been his fault, it was hers, she had taken that shot, gotten the mage’s attention, gotten Varric hurt, and herself knocked off the side of a cliff…

Varric heard her whimpering, but couldn’t make out if she was saying anything in particular, or merely giving voice to her pain. He tried not to let it show, how much it hurt him to see her hurting, and steeled his resolve. “I was afraid of that. Listen, this isn’t going to be easy. Your leg got caught in an old tree root. It saved your life, but it probably broke your leg. We’re going to have to lift you up a bit, before we can free your leg from the roots. It’s gonna hurt; I can’t help that.”

She nodded, her head inside her helmet beginning to feel stuffy and sweaty. “I understand. I’ll let you know if it gets to be too much.”

He wasn't sure she would, but they didn’t have much of a choice. “Promise?” When she nodded, her lower lip once more firmly fixed between her teeth, he reluctantly gave in. He thought about scolding her for chewing her lip, afraid she might bite it through, but figured there was enough to deal with for the time being. “All right. Start pulling again.”

It hurt. It felt like a white hot poker was being held, deep within her lower left leg, right inside her very bones. She tried not to cry, squeezing her eyes shut tight, but that only intensified the pain. She opened them again to find her vision blurred with tears, the dampness condensing at the corners of her eyes and dripping upwards/downwards/sideways over her skin and into her hair. She held her breath, willing her body to accept the pain, to remember how, to realize that it would soon pass and a healing potion would make everything better…

“Stop!” Varric called out again.

“No…” she moaned. “Keep going. I can make it.”

“Sorry, we have to stop,” his voice was deeply saddened by her bravery. “I’ve gotta work your leg free. It’ll just take a moment.” He silently prayed it would be easy to disentangle her leg from the jangled and twisted mesh of ancient roots.

The Herald blinked her eyes clear, looking for anything to stare at and take her mind off of what Varric was doing. Her torso was now even with the roots, Bull shifting a little further along the edge so she could lie relatively flat rather than doubled over her injured leg. The qunari easily handled her weight on the rope all by himself, leaving Blackwall and Cassandra to hold Varric’s rope, Vivienne somewhere out of sight. She looked up at Bull, saw him watching her, saw the brief flicker of concern cross his features, and wondered if he cared about her, like Varric and the others. She had thought it odd, the way he asked to join the Inquisition—well, to be hired by the Inquisition—and then promptly told her he was a spy and would be spying on them as well as for them. She had never met a qunari who was so, well, likable. Of course, considering her past…

Her thoughts broke off along with a chunk of root that had jarred her leg as it fell away. She wanted to cry, maybe scream, and blacking out again sounded like a wonderful idea, but she was still looking at Bull. He held her gaze, his intense stare not allowing her to look away, his expression grim and determined. It was as if he was willing her to face the situation, to stay strong, to battle the pain and overcome it.

And she did.

A moment later and her leg swung free, her body pivoting now that the only thing holding her was the rope just beneath her armpits. Bull’s face was pulled from her view, but not before she saw his approval. Then Varric’s face was there again, looking at her closely, making sure she was still alive. She gave him a little smile, not that he could see much of it, but perhaps he saw it in her eyes because he relaxed. “Almost done, Snowdrop. You did very well.”

She could barely hear him. Her head was above her heart once more, the blood draining away from her swollen face, leaving her feeling lightheaded and a little giddy. When Varric took her hand, however, she returned his grip just as fiercely.

She must have fainted, just for a little while. Bull was carrying her over to where Vivienne had set up a tent, his arms surprisingly gentle for their size. She knew how strong he was, had seen how easily he swung that greataxe of his, had even seen him snap a man’s back across his knee, but the tenderness with which he set her on the camp cot was unexpected. “You awake again, Boss?” he asked as he pulled away, spying her eyes blinking at him through the slits in her helmet.

“Yes,” she answered, though she had to clear her throat before the word was more than an unintelligible squeak.

“Here, let me take this off for you,” his thick fingers started working on the ties holding her cheek guards in place.

“No,” she tried to shove his hands away, but the movement caused her to twitch her leg. She hissed, halfway sitting up, one hand trying to grab her thigh while the other tried to keep her helmet in place.

“It’s okay, Boss,” he reassured her, supporting her with one hand between her shoulder blades, helping her the rest of the way up. He spread the fingers of his other hand, peacefully, and moved it slowly away from her helmet.

“Here,” Vivienne bustled into the tent without so much as a cough to warn them. She held a vial in one hand, and pushed it in front of the Herald’s face. “Drink this down. All of it. Then you’re going to take a nice little nap while it works. And you,” she turned to Bull, “Are going to wait outside with the others.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he bowed. Slowly he removed his hand from the Herald’s back. Encouraged when she didn’t fall over, he stood up and moved a step back. “If you need anything, just give a holler.”

“I will, The Iron Bull, thank you.”

He smiled, she thought because she used the article in front of his name. It was silly, in her opinion, but it pleased him, and she did like his smile. Besides, if there was anyone whose good side she wanted to stay on, it would be Bull.

“Out!” Vivienne repeated, shooing him away with the back of her hand. Obviously she didn’t care if she hurt Bull’s feelings, but somehow, amazingly, it didn’t matter. Bull always backed down around her. The Herald was fairly sure it wasn’t because he liked her or anything along those lines, but the reasons why escaped her.

“Didn’t I tell you to drink that?” Vivienne turned to her next.

“Oh, er, yes, I’ll just, um, drink this,” she brought the vial to her lips and bumped into her cheek guards, spilling some of the liquid onto her front.

Vivienne gave a long-suffering sigh, “Take your helmet off first, my dear.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Remember that. You are the Herald of Andraste; act like it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hadn’t meant to do an imitation of Bull, but thankfully she didn’t comment on it. The Herald untied the leather thongs holding her cheek guards closed and freed her mouth. She brought the vial to her lips and sipped.

And promptly choked. “What’s the matter now?” Vivienne asked.

The Herald shook her head, trying to pass the vial back. “This tastes awful.” Opening her mouth had been a bad idea. The little potion she had swallowed was making her stomach to backflips, and she feared the potion might come back up on her.

“Of course, dear, it’s supposed to taste terrible,” Vivienne soothed her with a cool hand covering her own, making her hold on to the vial. “If healing potions tasted good, everyone would want to get sick and hurt all the time. Terrible tasting medicine is a good deterrent against a lapse in attention. Now, have another sip.”

She did so, only because the mage sounded so calm and sincere. She took a healthy swallow, wanting to get it done and over with as soon as possible. As she feared, however, her stomach began cramping the moment the liquid hit it. She groaned and clutched at her gut with her free hand. The next moment she rolled to her side.

“Madam Herald!”

“Is something wrong?” Cassandra’s voice penetrated the canvas a moment before she shoved aside the flap and entered. She saw Vivienne hovering over the Herald, who was lying twisted and in obvious pain, a puddle of sick on the ground beneath her.

“I… I’m sorry… I can’t… I can’t drink…. it’s off…” she panted between her words, trying to gasp out an explanation that the two women could understand.

“There, there,” Vivienne patted her shoulder. “Take a deep breath. Try not to think about it.” She didn’t flinch as the Herald choked and spit up a little more, right onto the toe of her boot. She did reach down and pick up the bottle, having fallen from the Herald’s grasp when she began to be sick.

“What is it?” Cassandra blurted, coming up beside Vivienne. “What has happened? Why is she sick?”

“I’m not sure,” Vivienne stood up, knowing there wasn’t much she could do for the Herald and wanting to examine the contents of the vial. “This should be a healing potion, but…” her words trailed away as she upended the vial. Most of it had either been taken by the Herald or spilled when she dropped the bottle. There was enough left inside, however, for Vivienne to tap out onto the palm of her hand. She sniffed at it, and very gingerly dipped the end of her smallest finger into it and placed the drop on the tip of her tongue.

Immediately she spat it out, making a face. “She’s right. This potion’s gone off.”

“Off?” Cassandra demanded. “Healing potions don’t go ‘off’.”

“This one did,” Vivienne held the blackish green liquid up for her inspection. “It’s rancid. No wonder the poor girl’s sick.”

There was a moment of silence while the two women stared at the goop in Vivienne’s hand. Then Varric’s voice cut in from the tent flap behind them. “That’s… not good.”

“Varric!” Cassandra immediately seized on a line of questioning, wanting answers, demanding answers. “You took a potion, didn’t you? After being hit by that spell?”

He shrugged, “Sorry, Seeker. I didn’t feel the need. Sure, I’m sore and bruised in a few places I won’t name, but nothing that warranted a potion. Not while the Herald was hanging upside down off the edge of a cliff, at any rate.”

Cassandra was not going to be deterred. “They can’t all be rancid. Get another potion.”

Blackwall was closest, he and Bull standing behind Varric, all of them wanting to make sure the Herald would be all right. He rummaged in the pack and pulled out another vial, handing it carefully to Varric who passed it to Cassandra who uncorked it herself.

A disgusted sound popped from her lips as she poured some of the liquid onto her hand. “The same. Spoiled. Give me another.”

“There was only one more in the bag,” Blackwall stated flatly.

“Shit…” Varric sighed into the crowded tent. “You want to make for the Inquisition camp?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I suppose we’ll have to, but I got these bottles from the camp. It’s quite possible the other bottles there will be just as unusable.”

“There’s the Crossroads.”

“They don’t have a healer, now that Mother Giselle has joined the Inquisition.” A groan of frustration rattled inside her chest. “Splint her leg. We’ll make for Haven, with all possible haste.”

“If speed is what you’re most concerned about,” began Bull, “I could get her to Haven in two… no, wait.” He slipped his head outside briefly to gauge the time, “Three days. Tops.”

“You can travel that quickly?” Cassandra didn't sound convinced.

“I can, if it’s warranted. It won’t be easy, might get a little rough on her, but she’ll be in Haven before the end of the week.”

“Sounds like you’re gonna run there, day and night. There’s no way the rest of us could keep that pace,” Varric sighed.

“You can’t,” Bull agreed. “But I will.”

“Out of the question,” Cassandra declined the offer. “I will not risk the Herald’s life like that. Just the two of you traveling alone? Without any protection? Without any assistance should you come across bandits or bears…?”

“I’m all the protection she’ll need,” he huffed, crossing arms as thick as tree trunks and glaring at Cassandra with his one good eye.

The Herald had lain there this whole time, listening with wide eyes, as the others decided her fate. She decided, since it was her fate, she should have a say in it. “I’ll go with The Iron Bull.”

Everyone rounded on her. Suddenly she remembered that her cheek guards were undone, that everyone could see the scars on her face, though thankfully the worst side was turned down and away from them. She swallowed, feeling nervousness grow inside her, but she wasn’t going to back down. She focused her eyes on Cassandra and opened her mouth, hoping the right words would come to her. “You said it yourself; I need to get to Haven. With all possible haste. Bull can do that. He can get me there quickly, and safely.” She paused to swallow, really wishing that healing potion had been usable, her leg throbbing with each heartbeat. Throwing her last card on the table, she hoped it was enough to win the pot, “And I trust him.”

Cassandra looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but then again, she had that expression on her face a lot of the time. She took several breaths through flared nostrils, everyone else watching her now, wondering and waiting for her decision. “Very well. Iron Bull, you will take the Herald to Haven as quickly as possible. The rest of us will follow.” She stepped up into his personal space, her voice as dark as her hair, “But if one hair on that girl’s head is harmed, if she gets so much as a scratch from a passing bush…”

“Right, right, you’ll have my balls for breakfast. Hurry up and splint her leg already; daylight’s wasting.” He seemed almost bored with Cassandra’s threat, dismissing it as he turned to walk outside the tent. “Blackwall, help me get a pack together. I’m gonna need food for the two of us; won’t have the time to stop and hunt for anything along the way. Gonna need water skins, too. Could probably find a stream or two, but the less time I spend standing around refilling skins is more time I can spend running…”

The Herald tried to listen to him; anything to keep from watching Vivienne wrap her leg tightly between two splints. The more she looked at her leg, or thought about it, the more it hurt. Bull and Blackwall were out of earshot, however, and Cassandra stalked off quickly without so much as a goodbye. The Herald looked up at Varric next, hoping for some comfort that she had made the right decision. “Cassandra’s mad at me, isn’t she.”

Varric sighed, a slightly sad expression on his face. “Mad, maybe. Also, maybe a little scared. You are the only one who can close rifts, or has a chance at closing the Breach. If anything should happen to you…”

“Bull will keep me safe. I trust him.”

“You trust everybody,” he argued. He glanced over Vivienne’s shoulder to see she was almost done. “That’s not quite true, but you do sort of put your trust in people before you really get to know them. That can get you into a lot of trouble, if you chose the wrong person to trust.” He shook his head, “But it’s not like we have much of a choice. Just…” he hesitated, unable to say what he wanted, what he feared, what he knew Cassandra was fearing as well: that someone had deliberately tampered with those potions, that somehow the Herald’s assassin had managed this little mishap. He settled for patting her shoulder, “Just take care of yourself, all right? I want to see you on your feet and running with Sera by the time I get back to Haven.”

She smiled, the expression warm and genuine, feeling grateful for his concern. Before she could answer, Bull stuck his head back inside the tent. “You ready to go, Boss?”

She looked to Vivienne, who nodded and stepped out of the way. “I’m ready. Let’s get going.”

* * *

“Hey, ah, Boss, could you stop doing that? It sort of… tickles.” Bull’s voice sounded strained to his own ears, as if he was panting like a bellows—at least for a qunari. Damn he was tired, near exhaustion, but he knew Haven was only a couple of miles away; they’d make it. That is, if she could keep from tickling him every few moments.

“What?” she asked, her speech a little slurred. She blinked up at him from where he carried her in his arms, but his blind eye was towards her. She looked back down at his chest, at his scarred and naked skin looking ghostly in the predawn light, and realized she had been stroking one of those scars. Damn she was tired. She had tried to sleep, she really had, but between the pain in her leg—intensified with every heavy-footed leap over an obstacle or sudden shift in direction—and the sweating she had done those first two days, she hadn’t been able to sleep very well. Or for very long. Her mind was a foggy mess, buzzing with fatigue and pain and inactivity…

“Of course, if you’re into that sort of thing, maybe later…” he purred suggestively, “But not right now, you know?”

“Oh,” she said quietly, not really sure what he was talking about, other than her fingers on his scar had been tickling him. She dropped her hand onto her lap, thinking the best, and easiest, thing to do right then was agree. “Sure. Later works for me, too.”

It felt like Bull might have laughed at that, his massive chest bouncing a little extra, but no sound escaped his lips. Not until he spoke, “Try to get some rest, okay? We’re almost there.”

“Can’t,” she mumbled, even as she tried to snuggle into a more comfortable position.

“Leg still hurts?” He didn’t want to talk, but it sounded like she needed it. They had been mostly silent these past three days, his breath and energy focused on running, hers focused on not falling out of his grasp. Yet so close to their goal, perhaps he could spare a few breaths, encourage her to talk about what was bugging her so bad it kept her from some much needed rest.

She hummed a little acknowledgement, her fingers straying back to that scar, cutting across his left, er, breast? She didn’t think men were supposed to have breasts, but Bull was so massive, so muscular, he had… well, she had to call it something. The scar ran in a slight diagonal line, from his, er, cleavage, almost to his, um, nipple? “Why don’t you wear a shirt?”

Yup, she was tired, her mouth running off on its own, saying things she never would have said, her brain completely helpless to stop it.

Bull made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “You don’t want to see a qunari in a shirt. Things are still casual, you know, when we walk around wearing only pants, or less. But when we put on shirts, then things get formal—it’s all business. Yeah, you don’t want to see that.”

She forced her hand away from his skin. “But you have an awful lot of scars. Don’t you ever feel like, well, covering them up? Keeping people from staring at you?”

Bull laughed, he simply couldn’t help himself. He had to stop for a moment and lean his backside against a boulder to catch his breath. “Look at me. Do you really think wearing a shirt would keep people from staring at me?” He turned his face far enough to see her across the bridge of his nose, having distracted her with the question so he could study her condition. She was pale, looking thinner than normal, a light film of sweat hanging about the edges of her helmet—which she had repeatedly refused to take off. She wasn’t in bad shape, but she wasn’t doing so great, either.

The Herald looked back at him, because he asked her to, and took in everything about him, from his wide and singular-looking horns, to his massive frame, to the scars, to the eye patch… “No, I suppose you’d still stand out. But don’t they bother you?”

“What, the scars?” He resettled her in his arms and took off at a light jog. “Nah, they’re just marks. If anything, scars can tell you a lot about someone. Every scar was caused by something, so every scar tells a story about the person’s past. You, for instance,” he stole a glance across his nose again, “I’m guessing shrapnel, something hot, probably metal, thrown out from a blast or explosion.”

Immediately her hand reached up to cover her face, what little showed from within her helmet. With the cheek guards hanging loose, even from his angle he might have been able to see far enough inside…

She sighed, dropping her hand. It wouldn’t do any good covering it up, not if he had already seen it. “How can you tell?” she asked, her small voice falling to where her hands now clasped each other.

“Like I said, every scar is caused by something. After seeing a few, you get a feel for what sort of injury would leave behind what sort of scar. So, was I right?”

She shrugged, belatedly remembering that she was supposed to be suffering from amnesia. “I guess so. I can’t remember what caused my scars, only that there are a lot of them.”

Bull gave a gruff sort of sound in acceptance of her statement. Something didn’t quite add up, but he let it slide—for now. “You got more of those kinds of scars? That’s… awesome!”

As he planned, his unexpectedly positive reaction to her physical form made her lift her head up, suddenly, a brief flicker of hope crossing her features. “You…” she had to swallow, her voice wanting to crack, “You’re not put off by…” she waved her fingers in the general direction of her cheek.

“Not in the least,” he answered honestly, for once the truth serving better than a lie. “In fact, I think it’s turning me on. I mean, here’s you, a mere slip of a girl, surviving the explosion at the Temple. Actually, you’ve survived more than that if you think about it; all those scars were caused by something, right? But you lived through whatever nasty load of shit was dumped on you. That takes guts. Yeah,” he had to look away, “That’ll turn me on.”

He might be teasing her, but considering his views on fights and scars… “The Iron Bull, are you… flirting… with me?”

“You’re the one that brought up scars,” he shrugged, then thought better of it when she winced. “Never start a scar-comparing contest with a qunari, unless you’re prepared to win.”

Her brow furrowed, “Don’t you mean lose?”

“Nope,” he broke into a strong canter, “I mean win. I can see Haven’s chantry in the distance. Hang on; I think I can get us there before breakfast is finished!”

He had to be teasing her, but her mind was too tired to even try to figure out how. The faster pace was jarring, making her leg throb, but it would be over soon. She gripped the strap holding his shoulder pauldron in place and gritted her teeth, trying her best to ignore the pain.

Though it made her want to cry, Bull pushed himself to his fastest pace yet. In less than a quarter of an hour he was slowing down, trying to enter Haven at a more reasonable speed that wouldn’t, well, look like he was charging the town single-handedly. Just in case some trigger-happy scout didn’t see him carrying the Herald in his arms. He had been spotted, he’d been sure someone would see them, and was greeted by Cullen and a small escort as they came around the last bend in the road.

“What happened?” Cullen commanded. He’d been cautious when a scout reported seeing a qunari running towards Haven, curious when another scout a few minutes later reported the qunari was carrying something, and concerned when the third scout reported it looked like Iron Bull and the Herald. Seeing her curled in Bull’s arms, clinging fiercely to the qunari, her leg splinted and her face hidden, made his heart nearly stop. He was going to have answers, and he would have them now.

“Not now, Commander,” Bull huffed, fighting for breath. Damn, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He needed to reach the tent before he passed out. “I’ve got to get her to Stitches.”

“Stitches?” Cullen refused to let them out of his sight, falling into step beside them, almost jogging to keep up with Bull’s longer strides. “Is she hurt?” He cursed himself as soon as he spoke; of course she was hurt—her leg was splinted. Trying to cover his stating the obvious, he continued, “Take her up to Mother Giselle in the chantry…”

“No offense, Commander,” Bull’s voice was dark and deep, a hidden meaning lying somewhere behind his words, “But Stitches is closer. And I trust him.”

“Does the Herald trust him?”

Bull paused just outside one of the tents set up for his Chargers. “The Herald trusts me. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Cullen didn’t like the challenging tone in the qunari’s voice, nor the ominous meaning implied behind it. Still determined to get answers, he followed them into the tent. “I’m waiting to hear what happened.”

“I’d like to know, too,” Stitches agreed, standing up as soon as his leader appeared. He didn’t waste time with talk, knowing Bull would set the Herald on the table at the back of the tent. Instead he got out what he thought he would need, having noticed the splint.

“She broke her leg,” Bull began, already having decided to keep the narrative short. “We didn’t have any healing potions, so I brought her back here as quickly as I could.” As he stepped away, Stitches stepped in, cutting away the old splint.

“Back here?” Cullen repeated, aghast. “There had to have been someplace closer than Haven. An Inquisition camp. Or a settlement.”

The Herald pushed herself up onto her elbows as Stitches took hold of her boot. He tried to slide it off carefully, but her leg was too swollen. He ended up having to cut through the leather, which tugged and twisted on her leg. She hissed and gripped the edges of the table, but otherwise managed to keep still.

“There was a camp, but they were out of healing potions. That’s why we didn’t have any with us when she got hurt,” Bull lied, he thought quite convincingly.

The Herald looked sharply at him, saw the slight shake of his head, and allowed the lie. Something was going on, and she was too tired and weak and just plain upset to keep up with everything. She trusted Bull; she would let him handle matters. She focused on what Stitches was doing. He had finished cutting a slit in her leggings and was palpating her leg. She grew concerned—she had some scars there too, and not all of them matched the scars on her cheek—but apparently the broken bones were drawing more attention than the scars.

“How long ago was the break?” Stitches asked his commander.

“Three days; a little less.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Bull blustered, then because he had to know if and where he had messed up, continued, “Why do you ask?”

Stitches pulled his attention away from her leg to stare his boss square in the eye. “Because the bones have already begun to set. Incorrectly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he groused, “Either the injury is at least a week old, or she’s taken something to help her start healing, or she’s a quick healer. But whichever it is doesn’t matter. The bones weren’t set properly. Her leg’s going to be twisted, slightly, but enough to give her a limp.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Bull pressed, feeling guilty somehow. Maybe he’d jostled her leg one too many times during their trip here. Maybe the way he carried her twisted her splint until that twisted her leg.

Stitches blew a harsh breath out of his nose and looked down at her. She stared back steadily, her face calm, trusting. “Is there?” She watched his pock-marked face soften where only she could see it, before he nodded determinedly and turned back to the other two.

“I’ll have to re-break her leg, as close to the original breaks as possible, and reset it.”

“Blessed Andraste,” Cullen muttered. He knew what that would entail, and though he’d never had a broken bone before, he had seen such a procedure done by other surgeons on other soldiers… but the Herald was just a girl. He looked at her, lying small and helpless on that table, three strong men standing over her deciding her fate, deciding to put her through even more pain…

He knew someone strong would have to make the fresh breaks, the stronger the better, to make it clean and quick, but he couldn’t be the one to do that to her.

“I’ll do it.”

Bulls’ statement was calm, not quite cheerful, but definitely unconcerned, as if he was offering to carry her pack for her. But he wasn't; he was offering to deliberately crack bones, give her torment, and Cullen found his attitude disturbing. His hazel eyes grew hard as he glared at Bull, but Bull was looking elsewhere, at the Herald. He turned and saw she was holding Bull's gaze. What little he could see of her face was drawn and gray, and perhaps a little fearful, but her deep brown eyes were steady. Damn, she was going to let him do it.

The Herald was unaware of Cullen's disquiet. She was captivated by Bull's stare, and recognized the expression on his face. It was the same one he wore as Varric worked her leg free from the tree roots, when he silently willed her to be strong and conquer the pain. And she knew what he was trying to tell her: she had done it before, she could do it again. “Just another nasty load of shit,” she said, thinking of their conversation regarding scars.

“You must be standing in front of the target,” Bull smiled at her.

Stitches spoke up before Cullen could ask—again—for clarification, “Give me a few minutes to fix you something for the pain.”

"I'll be all right. Just do it. The quicker, the better." Her words were tired, but held the authority of command. Stitches shrugged and went to work.

Cullen knew he didn’t have to stay, he didn’t have to watch, but he couldn’t leave her like this. He stood off to the side, out of the way, half hidden in the shadows, feeling like he was spying on them. Stitches very carefully felt for and found the partially healed breaks, three of them, and pointed them out to Bull. He watched the qunari’s massive hands swallow the lower part of her leg, her scarred skin disappearing beneath the gray.

He couldn’t do it; he couldn't watch. Cullen dragged his eyes up to her helmeted head, and found her eyes locked on Bull’s calm and unconcerned face. The first snap wasn’t loud; he wouldn’t have been sure he had heard it, if it wasn’t for her reaction. Her helmet tapped against the table, her hands gripping the sides until her knuckles were white. He saw her bite her lip, but she barely made a sound louder than a whimper.

After the second one, she turned her face away, towards Cullen. He could see between the loosened cheek guards that she had bitten her lip, drawing a droplet of blood. Her eyes had been squeezed shut tight, but she slowly opened them to find him staring at her. And she couldn’t look away. They continued to stare at each other through the third re-break.

Stitches took over after that, setting the bones carefully before wrapping her leg securely in a fresh splint. Bull moved up to the Herald’s shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze. “You did good, Boss. Better than most. Shit, better than some qunari I’ve seen.”

She turned away from Cullen, and it was as if he had been released from a spell. His knees suddenly felt weak, a cold sweat beaded his brow, and his hands were shaking. He discreetly leaned against a large chest while he collected himself.

“Thanks, Bull.” Her speech was slurred, quiet, and breathy.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, huh?”

“Not until she drinks this,” Stitches paused in his work long enough to pass over a healing potion.

“Ah, I don’t suppose this is one of yours?” Bull asked, holding the vial in his hands like it might bite him.

“It is,” Stitches affirmed, sounding exasperated. “I mixed it fresh yesterday morning. And this one’s a healing potion, if you’re worried about the taste,” he tapped the green glass. “Don’t mind him,” he turned to the Herald, smiling reassuringly, “He’s afraid it’ll taste bad, because he always drinks the healing poultices I make for him. This one’s a potion; it should taste like pears or apples.”

“I like pears,” she sighed. She let Bull hold her up with an arm behind her shoulders, while he carefully dosed her with the potion. After it was finished, she smiled at Bull and confirmed, “It didn’t taste rancid at all.”

He smiled indulgently at her. “That’s good. Now go to sleep.”

She nodded, too tired to speak, thinking that sleep would be a wonderful thing to do right then. Her leg was feeling loads better already, the pain fading past memory into forgetfulness. And she hadn’t gotten much sleep on the way here. She yawned as far as her jaw would allow, feeling her body grow limp before her mind drifted away.

“I want a full report,” Cullen broke the silence.

“Yeah, okay, Commander,” Bull sighed, “Right after I put her to bed.”

Cullen looked at him critically, noted the dark circles under his eyes, saw him sway slightly as he picked the Herald up. Yet despite his fatigue his arms remained steady and sure around her frail-looking form. “I’ll be waiting.”

Bull nodded, not wanting to do much more than find his own bed and fall asleep for a week. Well, a day at least. He’d get too hungry if he tried to sleep for a week. But he had to make sure the Herald was resting safe and sound in her own bed first. He left Stitches to clean up what little mess they’d made, left the Commander fuming darkly behind him—he’d explain everything when they were alone; he didn’t want to do so in front of Stitches. Not that he didn’t trust one of his own, but he had a suspicion that something else was going on, and he wanted to get in on it, and he didn’t think Cullen would talk about it in front of Stitches. Of course, he might not talk about it with him, either, but he’d have to try.

He was Ben-Hassrath, after all.

Bemusedly he found himself in front of the Herald’s little house in Haven, thinking he must be tired if he couldn’t remember the walk there. He gingerly juggled her sleeping form while trying to open the door, managed it with the help of a knee, and stumbled inside. The room was cool but warming up, a fire recently started in the hearth. Someone must have been in here getting it ready while they had been in Stitches' tent. Good, he wouldn’t have liked the idea of her sleeping in a chilly room, even under a mountain of blankets.

He had a little trouble after getting her onto the bed, trying to get the covers out from beneath her so he could put them over her. But he soon had it figured out and the fragile-looking young woman tucked in nice and warm. He stood up and studied her critically for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. He mentally kicked himself when he realized her helmet, in fact all her armor, was still on. With a quiet little grunt of disgust over himself, he sat on the edge of the bed and began working on her helmet.

A hand to either side of her head, he firmly yet gently pulled it off. As he did so, his hands brushed her hair back, away from the sides of her face, revealing…

“…shit…”

* * *

Bull was in a pickle.

Or rather, he had gotten pickled last night. And the night before. And the night before that. Ever since he and the Herald got back to Haven. He had only held off long enough to give his brief report to Commander Cullen, of how the Herald had broken her leg, and the potions were off, so the decision had been made to bring her back to Haven. Cullen took the news stoically, refusing to acknowledge that there was anything out of the ordinary about the incident, and Bull was too shocked and preoccupied by what he had seen to press the issue. After the Commander had dismissed him to get some sleep, Bull instead had all but crawled to the one tavern in town and started drinking.

He must be getting soft, that’s what he thought to himself. There was no other reason why one single woman could cause such a crisis of faith. Oh, sure, she was cute, especially whenever he could coax one of those rare smiles out of her. And her large brown eyes reminded him of a doe in the woods, innocent and wild and pure.

But she was none of those things.

He knew what he ought to do. Shit, that’s why he was there, in Haven, openly spying on the Inquisition—and helping them out on occasion for a modest fee. So far it had worked out fairly well; he knew the information he sent back to his superiors showed that the Inquisition was working to close the Breach, which the Ben-Hassrath would have to admit was a good thing. They couldn’t have any objection with his request to remain here to help. But he should tell them. He should report this to his superiors. That’s really what he was supposed to be doing here. Yet he couldn’t, not because he wasn’t loyal to the Ben-Hassrath, but because he'd grown too fond of her.

So he’d taken up drinking, hoping to stall for time, that somehow an answer would appear, the problem would solve itself, and he wouldn’t have to get involved. Yeah, he was getting soft.

He pushed himself halfway to sitting up, pushed away last night’s half-finished drink, and signaled for a fresh mug. “I need some reconditioning…”

“Nah, Chief,” Krem’s cheery voice invaded his pounding head, intensifying his hangover, “You just need a good fight or two; that’ll get you back in shape.” He slapped Bull on the shoulder and sat down next to him at the bar.

“Krem,” he grunted, not at all pleased to see his lieutenant. He tried ignoring him, hoping that would work. It did for a time, the two of them sipping quietly at their mugs, but he knew it wouldn’t last. This was the first time Krem had sought him out after his return. Damn, he must be going to try to talk with him about something.

“Heard the others finally made it back from the Hinterlands late yesterday.”

“Ungh,” he grunted again, his voice echoing inside his mug, hoping that was all.

“Seeker Cassandra interrogated Stitches for an hour regarding the Herald’s condition before she was satisfied.”

“Ungh.”

“I talked with him myself this morning. He says the Herald is all healed. Good as new.”

He was quiet this time; apparently making some sort of acknowledging sound encouraged him too much.

“You should go see her.”

Nope, apparently Krem was not to be stopped. Not this morning. Bull thought about pushing away from the bar, but he didn’t trust himself to stand right then, not without his head exploding from the pressure. Damn, but his horns were heavy this morning.

“Listen, Chief,” Krem leaned in closer, “I talked with Stitches. I know what you had to do. Something like that, sure, it can be tough to do, tough to live with after,” he put a heavy hand on Bull’s shoulder again and squeezed, “But it worked. It was worth it. Her leg’s good as new. I know it put you through the Fade to have to hurt her like that, but it’s over now. Go see how good she’s doing. It’ll make you feel better. Loads better than this swill ever could.” He clanked their mugs together.

Bull wanted to argue. He wasn’t hiding in the tavern, pouting because he felt squeamish over re-breaking the Herald’s leg. He was Ben-Hassrath. He’d been trained how to use torture, if necessary, to get to the truth. He’d even purposefully broken bones before, and not just during a fight. But he couldn’t tell Krem the truth, that every time he looked at the Herald—every time he thought about her—he would see…

He made a disgusted sound, long and mournful, and scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he should see her, tell her what he saw, and then go from there. “Fine, fine, I’ll go see her. She in her cabin?”

“If you hurry. I think they’re all meeting up at the chantry today, to discuss Inquisition business, now that the others are back.”

Bull stood up, and both of them held their breath to see whether or not he could keep his feet. After a few seconds, and after the pounding in his head eased a bit, he shot Krem a wary glance. Krem smiled back, and Bull gave a little snort before he nodded and turned away.

Carefully he threaded his way through the tavern, thankfully uncrowded due to the early time of day. He stepped outside, feeling the bite of the cold air sting his lungs and the brightness of the sunlight burn his eyes. He took a deep breath, reveling in the discomfort of his hangover, and used it to fuel his recovery.

By the time he reached the Herald’s cabin, he was able to walk a straight line. There were two soldiers waiting outside, former templars Bull guessed by the way they held themselves. He remembered Commander Cullen saying something about the Herald getting an honor guard or something like that due to her esteemed position. The two didn’t challenge him when he approached, however, so he did his best to ignore them, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. He lifted his hand to knock just as the door swung open.

“Oh!” the Herald squeaked, her eyes widening in surprise. “The Iron Bull. I heard you weren’t feeling well, or, ah…” She bit her lip, thinking she might have slipped up, that she shouldn’t bring up his bout of drinking. Though no one had told her why Bull had taken up residence in the tavern, she thought she knew. And perhaps she felt a small amount of guilt, not because she had made him hurt her, but it had been her leg…

“Hey, Boss.” His hand was still hanging there, like he was going to knock, so he moved it to the back of his head, pretending to scratch at an itch. “Ah, good to see you up and about.”

“You, too,” she quickly agreed, and again regretted it. “I mean, me, too, well, that it’s good to see you.”

They stood there, looking at each other awkwardly for a moment. Finally Bull cleared his throat and tried again. “You, ah, mind if I come in?”

“Oh, ah, actually I have to go up to the chantry. There’s a meeting and…”

“This is important,” he interrupted, his voice sobering with his expression. “Believe me, or I wouldn’t be here.”

She swallowed, and a warning chill with a featherlight touch ran down her spine. She ignored it, too far into denial to want to see the signs. “Sure.” She shifted to the side, allowing Bull entrance, watching him duck and twist his head to get his horns through the doorway. It was a practiced move, something he did without thinking, something he must have been doing for most of his life. She followed him into the main part of her cabin, saw him hunt around for a place to sit, and finally decide on the edge of the bed. He looked up at her then, his scarred and fearsome features bent into a sad and regretful visage, and patted the mattress beside him.

“Come sit down.”

She did so, thinking there must be some bad news he had to tell her. “Is something wrong? Did one of your Chargers get hurt or… killed? Is it Krem?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that.” He let her take his hand and sighed, though he didn’t dare to look at her. Staring at a spot on the rug in the middle of the room, he decided the best way to do it was quick and clean. “I saw.”

She didn’t speak.

“It was after your leg was fixed. I brought you back here, thinking you’d prefer to rest in your own bed. I, ah, took your helmet off, so you could sleep easier, and…” his voice trailed away.

It took three heartbeats before she could find her voice. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Oh.”

“Did…” she stopped, her throat feeling thick, the words wanting to stick in the phlegm. She gave a small cough and tried again. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No.” His horns were feeling heavy again, and he was glad he was so much taller than her, allowing him to droop a little without having to worry about braining her. “No, it’s not my place to say anything. You’re my boss, Boss. I work for you, not the Inquisition, though they do pay my fee. But my loyalties lie with you. When Krem first came here, looking to offer help, he said no one would talk with him. He stood outside in the snow for hours until you came by.” He poked the center of her chest with his free hand. “You talked with Krem. You agreed to come out to the Storm Coast and speak with me. You hired us. So you’re the boss, and I’m not going to betray my boss, no matter what she does.”

“Or… or what she is?” Now it was her turn to stare at the rug.

He shrugged. “What are you? Far as I know, you’re the Herald of Andraste. You’re the only one who survived the explosion at the Conclave. You can close rifts with that funny mark on your hand, AND you stabilized the Breach. Might even close that someday. Least ways, you’re the only one who’s got a shot at succeeding. That’s what you are, to me.”

“That’s… not quite what I meant…”

“But that’s what’s important,” he emphasized. “Not what you look like, but what you can do, and who you are on the inside—your character. And you, young lady, are a very selfless, trusting, loving individual, willing to sacrifice for the greater good. Most people in your situation would’ve run the first chance they had.”

“Where could I have run to?” She lifted her face, only a little, but far enough to peek at him from beneath her long bangs. “That Breach was going to destroy the world, and I was the only one who could do anything about it. I had to stay here and help close it. I still have to.”

“See what I mean? You’re a good person, caring, understanding, responsible, and running towards danger rather than away from it like any sensible person would do.” He grinned fondly at her, “That’s my kind of girl.”

She returned the smile, the barest hint at the corner of her mouth. Though she felt a little better, she knew not everything was all right, not yet. She took a deep breath, knowing what she had to ask next. “So now what? Are you going to report this to the other Ben-Hassrath?”

Bull shook his head, and as he spoke to reassure her, he realized he was speaking the truth. “I don’t think I will. I mean, sure, they’re concerned about the Inquisition. I think they’re worried it might grow into a force that would oppose them someday. But so long as the Inquisition focuses on the Breach, I think the Qunari will leave us alone. They might even offer an alliance, someday. Besides,” he leaned in close, “Technically this discussion is happening in bed, and my superiors generally don't care to hear about how I spend my time in another's bed, especially after that one report regarding a brothel in Orlais,” he ended with a bemused chuckle.

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised slightly, her mouth parted and lips curling like she was either going hurl or laugh.

She took a deep breath instead…

“But you should tell the others.”

…and let it out in a whoosh, her shoulders deflating. “I can’t, Bull, I just can’t, they’ll hate me, they’ll throw me in that cell again, they’ll never trust me, never like me, I’ll be…”

“Hey!” Bull wrapped a trunk sized arm around her shoulders and gave her a little shake, snapping her out of her babbling rant. “Hey, Boss, come on, stop that. No one’s going to hate you. Sure, they might be a little sore for a while, that you kept the truth from them, but they’re not going to hate you. They’ll come around, once they see things from your point of view. Besides,” his hand stroked down her back, petting her, soothing her, “They’re going to find out eventually; Leliana’s just that good, you know that. And it would be better if they heard it from you. Then you’re right there, to answer any questions and keep them from speculating.”

She looked miserable, her eyes red, her cheeks blotchy, her fingers twisted into a tight knot and pressed into her lap. She sniffed, managed to keep the tears at bay, though the trembling refused to be stopped. “You mean, like how you were honest, about being a spy?”

“Now you got the idea,” he nodded, making sure he wouldn’t knock her with his horns. Though impressive on the battlefield, the horns tended to get in the way whenever he was indoors or there were too many people nearby—which is why he loved to be outside so much.

“Will…” she bit her lip, her face so intense he was afraid she might draw blood. “Would you come with me?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug, acting like there was nothing to be concerned about. “Sure, Boss, whatever you say.” It worked, her face lighting up—enough at least that she could scrub away her unshed tears with the sleeve of her coat.

“Suppose we should get this over with, right?” She stood up and waited for him to mimic her actions. “I should be up there already, anyway.”

He didn't answer, but walked ahead to hold the door for her. Then he followed, a pace behind and to the side, like a faithful bodyguard. The two former templars looked at each other, thinking they'd be superfluous if anyone tried attacking her with a qunari in tow. But they had their orders, so the more experienced templar shrugged and the two fell into step behind Bull.

She stepped out into the cold mountain air, pulling the edges of her coat closed. She didn't bother fastening it, her pace quick and light as she and Bull headed towards the chantry. Even with his reassuring presence she was uneasy. With two of Cullen's soldiers bringing up the rear and knowing what she was going to tell the others, she felt like she was walking to her doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, um, maybe this is another cliffhanger, sort of. Don’t worry, the next chapter is also almost finished. Just a day or two, and then…
> 
> The Big Reveal!


	5. Peredura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on pronunciation:  
> Per—“pear” secondary accent  
> e—“eh” no accent  
> dur—“do͝or” like in “endure,” main accent  
> a—“ah” no accent  
> Also, this chapter gets a little rough in spots. I apologize now; Cassandra especially seemed harder to write than I had anticipated. I hope you enjoy…

“…gave a brief account regrading how she broke her leg, and the spoiled healing potions. He was exhausted, so I didn’t press him for details. Good morning, Madam Herald,” Cullen broke off his report as she opened the door to the war room. “Sorry we started without you, but we haven’t gotten far. I was just telling the others what Bull told me, as little as it was, about your… Oh!” he broke off, seeing the massive qunari step into the room behind her.

The Herald had assumed her normal posture, slouching and hiding behind her long brown hair. She didn’t look up at them—she could tell who was there just by where each one stood. She heard everyone turn around to face her, could feel their eyes on her and Bull as they walked around the table. It wasn’t where she normally stood, but today she knew they’d all want to see her, question her, put her on trial. She stopped at the end of the table, and waited until she heard Bull stop moving behind her. “Good morning. I’m sorry for being late and, ah, and for taking over the meeting like this, but I, er, I have something I need to tell all of you.”

Cullen glanced around at the others, but if anyone else knew what was going on, they didn’t show it. To his right Leliana stood closest to the Herald, her head tilted curiously, and on his left Josephine paused in her scribbling to listen. Across from him Cassandra stood up straighter and crossed her arms, and Varric unconcernedly leaned his forearms on the table so he could see around her. At the other end of the table stood Solas, leaning on his staff, his eyes a mystery as always. No, no one was acting out of the ordinary, except maybe Bull.

Bull had never been invited to attend one of these meetings, so his presence was singular enough, but his stance was even more unnerving. He was behind the Herald and slightly to the side, leaning back and cocking one leg to plant his foot and shoulders against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, a seemingly very relaxed posed, meant to lull people into thinking he wasn’t two steps away from a fight. It made the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand on end. Something very serious was going on, especially if the qunari felt he had to be ready to protect the Herald. Very, very slowly he put his left hand on his scabbard, his right hand hanging loose but ready. Glancing again at Cassandra he saw she had changed her posture and hooked her thumb into her belt, inches away from the pommel of her sword. Well, he thought to himself, at least two of them were ready for whatever was about to happen.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The Herald had been quiet this whole time, chewing her lip, staring down at the table. Finally she spoke, her words as soft as her hair. “I don’t know how to…” She sighed, wanting to look back at Bull, to let him tell the others, but she knew she had to be the one. Thinking of Bull gave her an idea, at least of how to start. She lifted her chin as Vivienne would advise, the curtain of her hair parting to show her face. Staring at a spot on the wall just to the side of Solas’s elbow, not wanting to look at anyone, to see their expressions of shock and disgust, she pulled her hair back. Not just away from her face, not just showing the jagged scar on her cheek, but back behind her ears. Or what was left of them.

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen felt like his knees wanted to turn to jelly. He stared, unable to stop no matter how rude, at the side of her head. Someone had cut off the upper part of her ear, and presumably the other ear, too, judging by Cassandra’s hiss. It was a precise cut, clean, neat, but it made no sense. He couldn’t imagine there would be a person who would trim off the top part of a girl’s ears like that. Or why they would do such a thing. Unless…

“You’re an elf?” Leliana was the first to put the question to voice.

The Herald nodded, letting go of her hair. “There’s more,” her voice was barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat, staring down at the table once more, hiding behind the straight and shining brown locks. “I… I’m from Tevinter.”

Dead silence greeted her statement. No one moved, overly conscious of the qunari just behind her shoulder. Cullen barely dared to breathe, his mind refusing to speculate on the evidence at hand, even as his eyes continued to stare at the side of her head, now covered with her dark brown hair. An elf from Tevinter would mean… Suddenly Josephine’s quill landed on the table, its drop sounding surprisingly loud for a feather. Varric was next, clearing his throat and muttering a, “Well… shit.” Perversely Cullen wanted to thank them for interrupting his thoughts, not quite ready to accept the truth standing before him; he didn’t want to think that the Herald could be a Tevinter spy.

“So,” again Leliana was the one who spoke, “I take this to mean you don’t have amnesia.” Her voice was soft, not from sympathy or compassion, but with barely suppressed anger and hurt over this seeming treachery. She, too, acted aware of Bull’s protective stance, her hands straying to the small of her back and her concealed daggers.

Something didn’t quite add up, in Cullen’s opinion. The Herald couldn’t be a Tevinter spy. He knew Bull, knew of Bull’s hatred for Tevinters; there was no possible way he could be coerced into protecting a Tevinter spy. Yet he continued to stand behind the Herald, unmoved by the revelation that she was an elf from Tevinter. Perhaps he wasn’t standing there so much to support her, as to make sure she confessed. Cullen looked closer at his stance, trying to determine if Bull was being protective, or incarcerating.

The Herald shook her head, flicking her eyes to Leliana, her tone of voice eager to be believed. “No. I mean, I really don’t remember what happened at the Conclave. I’ve tried, but everything about that’s gone. When I told you all earlier that I couldn’t remember, I knew you misunderstood, but I… I couldn’t correct you. I was just…” she paused to sniff, trying very hard not to cry, “I was scared.”

“Scared?” Cassandra’s accent thickened with her ire, “You were scared? Of us? Why? Do you fear what will happen when you tell us the truth? Are you a spy? Sent by Tevinter magisters to infiltrate the Conclave?”

“Easy, Seeker,” Varric said, touching her elbow lightly while eying Bull. The qunari hadn’t shifted an inch, but there was an energy rolling off him like a physical force. “I don’t think that’s quite what’s going on here.”

“You don’t? But I do. I think she’s here now, because Bull discovered she was a spy!” she spat out the words.

“I think,” Bull answered, not coming out of his stance as he came to the Herald’s aid, “You should close your mouth and listen to her. If my suspicions are correct, what she has to say is going to be hard to hear, and harder for her to tell. And, yes, I did find out about her ears a few days ago, after we got back from the Hinterlands. She wasn’t awake at the time; I was putting her to bed after her leg had been reset, so she didn't know I’d seen them. When I heard the rest of you had gotten back, well,” he delicately left out his bout of drinking, “I figured it was time to come clean. I encourage her to come here and tell you the truth, before you found out another way and got the wrong idea.”

Cullen had to agree. Varric was seeing something in the Herald, something the rest of them—with the exception of Bull—hadn’t noticed. He tried to discern what it could be, but all he could see was a scared young woman trying desperately not to piss herself. “Let’s hear her out, Cassandra, before we jump to conclusions.”

Bull gave an approving sort of huff, and relaxed again.

Leliana looked straight at her face, doing her best to see through the overgrown bangs and into her eyes. She waited a moment, assessing the Herald’s minutiae responses, before asking, “Are you a spy?”

Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widening even further until they looked like dark brown pools. “I… no… no, I’m not. I’m a… was a slave.”

“A… slave…?” Cassandra sounded perplexed.

The Herald nodded emphatically, trembling now, continuing to look like she was on the verge of tears, or overwhelming fright. Bull moved slowly, aware of but ignoring the way Cassandra and Cullen both gripped the pommels of their swords. Instead he set a large hand on her shoulder, engulfing it, having to move his thumb to the other side of her neck as there wasn’t enough room. “I figured as much. Think about how she acts: willing to do whatever’s asked of her, eager to please, fearful of causing displeasure. Yeah, put that with the disfigurement of her ears, I knew she had to be a slave. There’s… well, I know a lot of different kinds of bastards. There’s only one kind who could do that to another person, abuse them and mess their minds up, and leave them too scared or ashamed to tell anyone about it. Had to be a Vint, probably a magister judging by how expertly fucked up her mind is.”

The Herald didn’t think her mind was fucked up, as Bull put it. She could think clearly, she was her own person, and she didn’t go around doing whatever anyone asked of her. Well, all right, she did do everything she was asked, but only in regards with the Breach, because she was the only person who had the mark…

“Is he right?” Josephine asked.

The question resounded within her heart, causing tears to fill her eyes. She could see it now: here she stood, in front of people she thought of as friends, nearly pissing herself she was so scared of telling them the truth, wanting—almost needing—to remain loyal to a brutal and ruthless master. “Yes,” she all but sobbed. Bull was right; things were definitely fucked up.

“All right,” Leliana leaned forward, setting her hands on the table. “Let’s start at the beginning. Why were you at the Conclave?”

“My master brought me there,” she answered immediately, obediently.

“Your master? What was his name?” Josephine asked, quill poised once more, ready to take notes.

“I…” she shook her head, trembling despite Bull’s reassuring squeeze. “I can’t. I simply can’t. There’s power in a name. If I say it… if he hears… even if he’s dead… he’s too powerful… he’ll…”

“That’s superstition,” Solas offered, his voice calm. In fact, he seemed to be the calmest person there, still leaning on his staff as he had been when this whole thing started.

“Maybe,” she allowed, perhaps pouting just a little, “But it’s a superstition I believe in.” Yet, she knew Solas was right; she wanted him to be right; she needed him to be right. She worried at her lip, battling with personal demons, trying to give up a lifetime of ingrained behaviors and beliefs. “His name is—was Vivianus Vicici. He was a Tevinter magister, a high ranking one. He…” she stopped as suddenly as she started, again at a loss to find the right words. And again, she decided her scars would tell the story—as Bull put it—better than she could. Her coat was still unfastened, so it wasn’t hard for her to pull the hem of her tunic free from her leggings, and lift it up far enough to show her abdomen.

Again Cullen wanted to swear. Again he stared rudely at the girl. Her skin was marked, in a macabre and sick sort of beautiful way, with scars. These scars weren’t like the one on her face. They were cuts, purposeful and designed, creating patterns of lines and swirls, some places thicker as if they had been repeatedly opened. The scars seemed to be all over her body. They reached around behind her back, and disappeared beneath her tunic above and the waistband of her leggings below.

“You know,” Varric opined, “I’ve got a friend with marks like that. Another former slave of a Tevinter magister. Only his are made from lyrium and were burned into his skin. Same sort of curvy lines, though.” He looked away to catch Bull’s eye. “Tevinter magisters are a breed of bastard all their own, aren’t they?”

“Blood magic?” Cassandra was still spitting, only now with shock. “There was a Tevinter blood mage at the Conclave? Why!” she demanded. “Why was he there? What was he doing? What did he have to do with the Divine’s death? With the explosion?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I can’t remember, I’ve tried, I really have, but it just isn’t there, my memories of that are gone…” The Herald’s babbling broke down into tears as she let go of her tunic to hide her face. Even Cullen could tell her failure to remember was real, her disappointment over her inability was honest. He held out a hand to Cassandra, signaling her to calm down, and back down, as Bull was looking angry and protective once more, his hand stroking the Herald’s shoulder.

“It’s all right,” Cullen said, trying to sound calm. “You're safe now, you're free. Though we've never felt what you're going through, we all appreciate how hard this must be for you, shaking off the shackles of a lifetime of obedience. And, yes, we're upset, but we’re not upset with you, Madam Herald, we’re…” he paused, a new thought coming to him. “We’re upset and angry over what your master did, both to you in your past, and what he must have done at the Conclave. By the way, what is your name?” He tossed the question out casually, trying that new thought he’d had, hoping to put her a little bit at ease. It worked, the tears slowing down to a hiccough and her face lifting just far enough for one dark brown eye to peek at him. Encouraged, he continued, “I’m assuming, since you don’t have amnesia, aside from around the time of the explosion, that you do remember your name. It would be nice to call you something other than ‘Madam Herald’ once in a while.”

She licked her lips, pulling her hands away from her face and twisting her fingers in front of her stomach. “Peredura.”

“Peredura,” he repeated, inclining his head as if he was meeting her for the first time. “I believe you’re implying that your former master was a blood mage? I’m assuming he, ah…” his words petered out, no longer wanting to ask if he brought her to the Conclave to perform blood magic. “Tell us what you can.”

“My mast… er, my former master was a high ranking magister,” she began. “He liked to use blood magic. He was good at it. I know that much, because he practiced it, not openly, but often enough. And people knew to come to him, if there was something they needed done and they didn’t want to get their own hands dirty.”

“He had to have been powerful,” Bull added, “If it was such an open secret, but he was never arrested. Even in Tevinter, blood magic is illegal.”

She gave a little shudder, “He was powerful. He… he liked to use me on… save me for the special cases.”

“Including whatever he was doing at the Conclave?” Leliana prompted.

The Herald—Peredura nodded. “He was posing as a, um, Tranquil, I think you call them? Yes, a Tranquil. I was to act as his assistant or servant, taking care of him, because I guess a Tranquil wouldn’t be able to take care of themselves.” Her voice lifted up, like she was asking a question, and she glanced at Cassandra. The Seeker nodded, as if what she said made perfect sense, though she continued to scowl. Peredura swallowed and took up her narration. “He, ah, said I was supposed to be a family member, a poor relation or something, but I couldn’t pass for a human, not with my ears, so…”

Cullen’s blood turned to ice. Thinking of that bastard, Peredura’s former master, feeling so confident and secure in his possession of her body, telling her like one would explain to a child that she needed to pass for human, as he calmly mutilated her. The leather of his glove creaked as his hand sought to crush the crossbar of his sword.

“Fucking Vint!” Bull growled, expressing everyone’s feelings succinctly.

Peredura flinched at the heat in his voice, coming as it did from just over her shoulder, but she knew it wasn’t directed at her. She wiped away a tear or two that had escaped when she jumped. “I don’t know why he came here. I was a slave; he didn’t share his thoughts with me. He only had me around to bleed for him.”

“Did he use you often?”

She nodded again in answer to Josephine’s softly spoken question. “Like I said, he used me for the special situations, the important ones. He would sometimes use other slaves, usually if I hadn’t recovered enough from the last time, but I was his favorite. He said… he said… my blood was… special… it held power… made his magic stronger…” Her words broke off, and she tried to hide her face once more. Bull’s hand left her shoulder to pet the length of her hair in long, soothing strokes.

“Is there any truth in that?” Leliana asked, her question directed to the other end of the table. All eyes turned to Solas, giving Peredura a chance to collect herself. “Could that have something to do with why there is that mark on her hand? Could there be something in Peredura’s constitution or temperament that makes her better suited than any other person to use this power that can open and close rifts?”

Solas shrugged. “Blood is blood, nothing more, nothing less. Yes, it holds power, power than can be used in magic, but no one’s blood is different from any other’s. As for Peredura being special,” he smiled down the length of the table at her, “I think we all can agree on that. But not for the same reasons as this… Vivianus person believed. You remember, I did examine her closely those first few days. I found no reason, no hidden detail or dormant ability, other than the mark, that would set her apart from another.”

“Yet you didn’t see her ears or those scars?” Cassandra was still upset, looking for a target—anything—upon which to vent her spleen, since the true villain, Vivianus, was disappointingly absent.

“Did you think I stripped her when I examined her?” he defended himself, sounding slightly miffed. Somehow, he knew someone was going to make an issue of his obvious lack of observational skills. Though he had suspected Peredura was an elf, he had never tried to confirm it, so he could honestly say he did not KNOW. Luckily, he had a reasonable excuse ready. “I looked at her using magic. I looked for any signs that magic had been recently used on her, or may have left a residual aura about her, anything that might have been related to the explosion and the Breach. I had no reason to examine her physically. I’m not a lecher,” he sniffed.

“We’re getting off topic here,” Varric stepped in between them, since he was already standing between them. He looked back at Peredura, who was once more in control of herself, and asked, “Your former master brought you to the Conclave, in disguise, presumably to spy on the proceedings. Or did he intend to use blood magic?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated for what had to be the hundredth time. “He didn’t tell me why we were coming here or what he was going to do, only how I was to act and what I should say if anyone spoke to me. I can remember walking across the bridge, and the long hike up the mountain.” She did leave out how she had been feeling, coming out of her stupor, wanting more, needing more… “And when we got inside, he… he took my hand and… and that was a signal that I was supposed to say something, make an excuse for us to leave the others. I did so, we stepped into a side room, and…”

She tried. She tried so hard to remember. But her mind was blank, empty of whatever events had taken place from that point to when she woke up, in a cell beneath this very room, chained and under heavy guard, sick from the mark and…

“I believe you’ve told us all you can regarding the Conclave,” Leliana set her hand on Peredura’s shoulder. “But there are other questions.”

“Yeah,” Bull spoke up, “Like how long did it take you to prepare for this? I mean, you’re from Tevinter, right? So you speak Tevene. Or do you speak Elven because you are one? It’s just, well, you’re pretty good at speaking the common tongue they use here in Ferelden. I was wondering if you had a talent for picking up languages or something.”

Peredura shook her head. “No, I don’t. I might have spoken Elven when I was little; I don’t remember much from my childhood. But I spoke only Tevene until shortly before coming here. My master gave me the knowledge of your language, through magic.”

Bull whistled through his teeth. “Neat trick. I might want to try that, next time I’ve got to pick up another tongue. It took me months to learn this one. Do you remember how he did it?”

She dropped her gaze down to the table again. “I misspoke earlier; I should have said: he used blood magic. It was when he did this,” she gestured to an ear. “And I wouldn’t recommend it. He… he found a Tranquil, captured her, made me watch and listen while he questioned her. Then he… he took my ears. He used my blood and the Tranquil’s blood, and used magic to take some of her memories out of her head and put them into mine. They’re still there; they haven’t faded. I can go to them, sift through them if I need a word or some particular piece of knowledge. But they’re… different… not me… like there’s someone else inside me, trapped in a cage, and it feels like I’m forcing that other person to tell me everything she knows whenever I use it.” She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Leliana gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before pulling away. “Well, that explains how a Tevinter knew so much about a Tranquil he could impersonate one.”

“What happened to the Tranquil?” Josephine asked hesitantly. “Does she no longer have these memories? Or are they shared between you? Was a reflection, or a copy, put into your thoughts?”

“I don’t know; my master killed her right after the ritual.”

Silence greeted that statement, as everyone there imagined the literally bloodthirsty individual who could accomplish such deeds, who had been her master, who was now—presumably—dead.

“I have a question,” Solas spoke up, a little hesitantly. Yet his tone was kind, tender, reassuring, and she nodded for him to continue. “I believe you said earlier that you might have spoken Elven when you were a child, but you cannot remember. Did something happen when you were little, something that keeps you from remembering?”

“It’s not easy to explain,” she shrugged. “I… I wasn’t always a slave, I don’t think. I remember when I was little, I lived with my parents in a covered wagon.”

“An aravel?” Leliana asked.

Again she shrugged. “I don’t know what it was called. It might have been, whatever that… arvel thing is. I only know it was my mother, my father and me, and we traveled all over Tevinter, living out of the wagon. Father made little trinkets out of pewter he sold to people, and mother would do odd jobs, like take in washing, whenever we stopped.”

“Were there any other elves?” Solas pressed. After she shook her head, he hummed, “Interesting.”

“So what happened?” Josephine asked. “It’s just that, I don’t understand how you could go from a child living with her parents, to a slave owned by that… monster.”

Peredura tightened her hold on herself, as if she could hug herself, hug herself like her mother or father would have, to give comfort, to chase away a bad dream, to care. Tears tried to flood her eyes, but she resolutely held them back. She had lied to these people, kept the truth from them—she had to regain their trust. The emotional pain it was causing her was the price she paid for betraying them in the first place.

“I was seven or eight years old,” she began, her voice almost as small as the child she had been, “It was at night. I had been asleep, but I woke up; I’m not sure why. I was alone inside the wagon. Mama and Papa were gone. It was bright, too bright for nighttime. And there was a roaring sound, something loud, like thunder, but it never died, it kept roaring, and every so often there was a louder burst of sound.” She ran her hands up and down her arms. “I was scared, so I got up and went outside to look for Mama and Papa. Only I couldn’t find them. There was too much smoke, lit by that strange light, making it too hard to see more than a couple of feet. I shouted for them, but I don’t think anyone could have heard me over all of the noise. I think there had been some sort of explosion that started a great fire, and the fire was causing more explosions. And all the smoke was lit up by the fire, making it hard to see.

“I started walking away from the wagon, and…” she touched her cheek, “There was another explosion. A big one, close by. Something hit me, hot and sharp, in my face, and all along my leg. I was lifted off my feet and thrown through the air. I think I was knocked unconscious. When I opened my eyes, I saw him. A mage. He wore fancy robes, but they were singed and burned away in places, and his face was red, and part of his hair had gotten burned. He was looking down at me, a strange expression on his face. I asked him for help. Asked him to find my Mamae. He didn’t speak to me, but he reached his hand down. I thought he was going to pick me up, but he didn’t.

“He touched my cheek,” she continued, almost trancelike, the words coming out of their own volition, “Where I was bleeding. When he lifted his hand away, his fingertips were coated with my blood. I watched it drip back down on me. He brought his fingers to his face and stared at my blood. Then he started casting spells, swinging his staff, magic coming from his hands and his staff and bursting like a bubble around him—around us. I… I could feel it. I could feel his magic, coming from inside me. Not that I was using magic, but the power, the… the… the strength, pulsed out of me with every heartbeat.

“He was draining me,” her voice dropped to nearly a whisper, but as no one was daring to breathe, they all could hear her. “Draining my life, my soul, pulling it out of me with my blood. I was so weak. So numb. The roaring had stopped, but I don’t think I could’ve heard it anyway. And the strangely lit smoke was gone, too. I think the tip of his staff was glowing, giving off light, because I could see him, a shadow outlined in light. He bent over me, smiling, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was… eager… hungry… it scared me… He picked me up, and I asked him where my mother was, and he told me she was dead. Everyone was dead except us. But it would be all right. He’d take care of me. And in return, I was to help him with his magic.

“There’s not much else," she rubbed her arms again. “He put me in a cell, and only took me out to… to cut me, to bleed me, whenever he had a ritual to perform. He said I was special, my blood was special, that it was strong with magic, made him more powerful. He didn’t use me for anything else, only bleeding. And he was careful with me, never bled me too far, like he sometimes would with other slaves. He wanted to keep me, to use me for a long time…”

“How long?” Josephine’s soft and gentle voice was almost blasphemous asking such a cruel question.

“Sixteen years.”

Cullen wanted to be sick. Outwardly he was stoic and calm, unmoving and unmoved by the tragic tale. Inwardly he raged at the Blight-damned mage who could do all those things to a child, an innocent. Well, he reconsidered, she wasn’t a child any longer. He had thought her thinness was due to youth, that she was in that stage of life somewhere between childhood and womanhood, gangly and awkward and just about to blossom. Now he could see—mentally drawing in the ear tips that were no longer there—she was elven, a fully grown elven woman, of… twenty-three? Twenty-four? Her face, whenever she lifted it far enough to come out from behind her bangs, though youthful and soft, held years of weight, of hard experiences. Yet she had remained far too ignorant of simple things, like friendship and affection, aiding the illusion of youthfulness.

“I haven’t thought about that night for years,” Peredura spoke so suddenly, he nearly jumped. “It was easier, better to forget, less painful. I kept trying to escape for the first couple of months. And my master… my former master was very angry each time. He… he started drugging me, to keep me quiet, to keep me from running. And I knew, if I wanted more, I had to behave, had to obey. So it was… it was easier… to forget about everything… than to know… I’d never have it… again… never be free… never see them… my parents…”

The tears finally won. No one spoke for the next several minutes while she cried, while she struggled against the pain and fought to get back in control of herself. At last Bull had enough. He turned her and held her against his chest, cradling her gently in his arms, granting her a place of refuge where she could let herself feel the pain, let herself remember, and still hide—a little bit—from the others.

“Fucking Vint!”

“You said that already, Tiny,” Varric quipped lightly. “Not so creative in the insult department, are you? Tell you what: meet me later this evening in the tavern, and we’ll put our heads together and see what sort of injurious descriptions we can come up with for this son of a bitch.”

“If you’re buying the drinks, sure.”

“Me?” Varric placed his hand over his chest modestly. “I’m broke. I’m not a mercenary on the payroll of the Inquisition. I’m only a lowly adventurer, an unwelcome tagalong, living off the charity of others.”

Bull laughed, giving Peredura a gentle pat on the back. “All right, Varric, first round’s on me.” He looked down at her, noting that she had quieted somewhat. “You okay now, Boss.”

She nodded, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I think so.”

Peredura finished wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her coat, wishing she had a handkerchief. As if by magic one appeared before her, passed to her by Leliana. She took it and uttered her thanks, but Leliana only gave a slight shake of her head before flicking her gaze to the corner of her eye. Peredura was a little confused by what that meant, but she didn’t try to figure it out. Instead she unfolded the handkerchief, intending to use it, but hesitated. In one corner were stitched the initials “CSR” in very neat and flowing embroidery. She remembered that Commander Cullen’s last name began with an “R,” but when she looked up to thank him, he was resolutely avoiding making eye contact, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, a slight tint of pink on his cheeks. She didn’t understand why he would deny such a thoughtful gesture, but she also allowed him his anonymity.

She used the handkerchief, thought about passing it back, thought better of it, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Peredura.” Cassandra’s voice crashed into her thoughts, the sharp tone making her want to jump, to hide behind Bull. Her next words, however, left Peredura amazed. “Thank you for coming forward. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I can appreciate that it was hard for you to do this. I know that I, at least, can sometimes be a bit… unapproachable.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Varric muttered. Cassandra ignored him.

“I especially was at the start of this morning. I regret that my actions may have given you cause to fear us.”

“No,” Peredura shook her head. “No, Seeker Cassandra, it wasn’t you. Yes, I was scared. But not of you. I was scared you’d be mad at me for lying to you, for keeping the truth from you. I was scared you’d lock me up again, or… or you’d punish me or something. But mostly I was scared I’d lose this. I…” she gestured with her hand, encompassing the whole room, “I like this. I like being friends with you all, and listening to these discussions, and being a part of something important. I was scared you wouldn’t want me around any more. I… I didn’t want to lose that… lose your respect…” She sniffed, but refrained from taking out the handkerchief, forcing herself to lock her eyes with Cassandra. “You’re like a big sister to me, or what I imagine a big sister would be like. I thought you’d feel disappointed in me, that I’d let you down, somehow.”

“You haven’t,” Cassandra affirmed. “You’ve been very brave, coming here, telling us the truth. Even if we cannot comprehend what you’ve been through, we can all appreciate the courage it took for you to come forward. And, I will admit,” she sighed heavily, as if what she was saying cost her something intangible, “I feel some sisterly affection towards you as well.”

Peredura started crying again, though she couldn't have said why. Half blind with tears, she started hesitantly in Cassandra’s direction. Cassandra finished the journey for her, coming up and putting her arms around the trembling woman. Though her breastplate was cold and hard against Peredura’s cheek, there was no way she was going to let go. She’d lied to these people, betrayed them, and they had forgiven her. She couldn’t understand how, or why, but she was very grateful. She wouldn’t betray them again!

“You’ve been truthful with us,” Cassandra said quietly, “I think it’s time we were truthful with you.”

Peredura sniffed, pulling back just far enough to see her face. Someone else started speaking before she could ask what Cassandra meant.

“I agree,” Cullen added the weight of his opinion behind Cassandra’s, turning to face Leliana, who was shaking her head adamantly. “This changes matters. She needs to know. It might help if she understood what was happening, she might remember something that could help us identify…”

“Fine,” she broke over his words, giving in less than gracefully, “But I will not have this aired in front of a confessed spy.” Her finger pointed accusingly at Bull.

He gave a goodnatured chuckle, taking no offense at her accusation, as he had made it clear from the beginning he was Ben-Hassrath. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” Bull turned towards Peredura, setting a hand on her shoulder, mindful of Cassandra’s arm still around her. “You’ll be okay now, Boss. You see that, right?” She nodded, and he let her go. “Good girl. I’ll be in the tavern, Varric. Don’t keep me waiting too long, or I might start without you.”

“I’m not worried,” he brushed aside the mild warning. “I’ve gotten a taste for how limited your imagination is when it comes to name-calling.”

“Maybe so, but there’s still my thirst to contend with.” He laughed again, letting himself out of the room. Peredura could hear his laughter echoing through the main hall, slowly fading as the door swung closed behind him and he walked away.

“I want to go on the record,” Leliana began, glancing at Josephine. Apparently, she was serious, pausing until Josephine began to scribble with her quill. “I don’t think you should know, Peredura. For your own safety, you understand. What you are about to learn, may disturb you. It will certainly cause you to act differently, which—for reasons that will become obvious—is something we cannot afford.”

Peredura swallowed. “I understand,” she tried to give assurance.

“No, you do not,” Leliana countered.

“Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” Cullen spoke, shifting subtly and drawing Peredura’s attention. “It happened while you were still unconscious, those first few days. Someone tried to break in to where we were holding you.” He felt himself wanting to cave in. Seeing her face, still a little blotchy from her tears, her soft brown eyes focused on him and full of concern, one hand holding Cassandra’s for support—he didn't want to be the one to tell her. But he had insisted she should know, had begun to speak, he had to finished. “Someone who wanted to kill you.”

Those soft brown eyes blinked at him, only once, “Kill me?”

“We didn’t put much significance on it,” Solas added, “Not at first. You were the only person who survived what happened at the Conclave. Understandably, it looked suspicious. There were several people who demanded your trial; it wouldn’t take a great stretch of the imagination to see how someone could decide to take matters into their own hands.”

“Whoever he was, he got scared off,” Varric added, wanting to play his part in reassuring her. “You had a lot of guards around you, all the time. He must’ve realized it would be too difficult to reach you unseen.”

“He?” she asked, feeling chilled.

“We found a footprint,” Leliana spoke, her voice a little softer, now that it seemed Peredura was handling the matter reasonably well, “Male by the size of it, next to a knife outside a corner window. We assumed he had tried to break into the chantry, saw there were too many guards and realized that he couldn’t get close enough to you to use the knife. Undoubtedly he retreated to think of a new plan, and probably dropped the knife lest it incriminate him.”

“Though we all took turns watching you, there were other attempts,” Cassandra continued. “Your tumble down the steps. Slipping on the patch of ice outside Solas’ cabin. The supply crates falling on you.”

“Those were all accidents,” she shook her head, “Weren’t they?”

“They appeared to be so,” Cassandra nodded, “At least, we never had any proof that they were caused by anyone. Not until what happened at the lake.”

“I was up by the trebuchets,” Varric took up this part, as he had been the one who had made the discovery, “When you had your little swimming lesson. I was too far away to be of any help, but I had a good view of everything. Including the bridge at the far end of the lake. There were flashes coming from one of the arches beneath the bridge, flashes like someone using magic. One flash when you tripped. Another when the ice broke.”

Peredura felt a shiver run down her spine, not wanting to hear, unable to stop her ears. “A mage? A male mage?”

Varric nodded. “Judging by the size and shape of the footprint, we’ve ruled out qunari and elven, and dwarves can’t do magic. That leaves human.”

“A male human mage,” she repeated, feeling the shiver try to grow into a tremble. Suddenly the mental block broke. She shot a look at Solas, her expression growing reproachful. “And you said there was no power in a name. But it’s him, isn’t it? It’s my master. He’s alive, somehow, and he’s trying to kill me…”

“I was afraid she couldn’t handle this,” Leliana murmured.

“We don’t know who he is,” Cullen tried to calm her, “Only that he’s a male human mage. That fits the description of a lot of people here in Haven. Of course, he doesn’t have to be here in town. For all we know, he could be hiding just outside in the hills, watching and waiting for any opportunity to strike.”

“That’s… not helping, Curly,” Varric muttered, eying her clinging to Cassandra’s side.

“Listen to me, Peredura,” Solas spoke, calmly, though his voice carried an authoritative weight he rarely used, the syllables crisp and clean. “Your former master is dead. He died, along with everyone else, at the Conclave. You are the only one who survived. Undoubtedly, it was the mark on your hand that ensured your survival. You alone have that mark; so you alone lived through the explosion. Whatever else happened, whatever intent or purpose he brought you here for, whatever power he may have held over you, is no longer effective. Vivianus Vicici is dead!”

She hiccoughed, staring at Solas, desperately wanting to admit he was right. She felt sick to her stomach, that twisted knot of fear, that she had misbehaved, that he would know and find her, that she would be punished… She took a shuddering breath, pushing aside the emotion, telling herself she was safe, her master was dead, she wasn't a slave, there was no longer anything to fear—except maybe spiders.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, watching her closely to see if she would calm down or finish her spiral into hysterics. Cullen willed her to be strong, though he also made a contingency plan to handle matters if she proved unable. The last thing they needed was for the Herald of Andraste to run screaming from the chantry…

“The potions.”

“What was that?” Leliana asked, surprised.

“The potions,” Peredura repeated, lifting her face a little. “After I broke my leg, I tried taking a potion, but they were off. Rancid. I could only manage a little bit before I was sick. But it was a healing potion; I’d had enough so that my leg started to heal by the time Bull brought me back here. That means someone tampered with the potions, hoping I’d get hurt and have to take one. That was another attempt, wasn’t it?”

Leliana shook her head, “We were just about to discuss that when you came in. I don’t think it was an attempt. It seems too desperate, too unreliable. There was no way he could be sure you would need a potion, much less that you would be the one taking it.”

“But he is getting desperate,” she argued. “I’ve been here, what, two months already? Longer? He keeps trying to kill me, to make it look like an accident, but he keeps failing. He’d have to be getting upset by now, frustrated, trying different things, even if there’s only the slightest chance…” She broke off, her brow furrowing. “Who is he?”

“We don’t know,” Solas answered, “But we—all of us—are working to keep you safe. He won’t succeed, no matter what he tries.”

She thought about it for a moment, about her little accidents, the trips and falls, the potions, the lake… Each time someone had been there to catch her, to watch out for her, to pull her out of danger. She was never alone. Even while she slept, there was someone just outside her door, within hailing distance, ready to respond should she need it.

“Peredura,” Leliana was hesitant, still not happy about including her in these discussions. Seeing as she was able to handle the situation, Leliana decided she might as well use her. “This person might be trying to kill you because he knows you. Have you seen anyone who looks familiar to you? Someone from Tevinter? Perhaps a friend of your master’s? Or a family member?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t have a family,” she said softly. “And he was too cruel to have any real friends. There were people whom he met with, discussed business with, and… and performed magic with,” she almost faltered at this point. “But no one who, well, held affection towards him.” She looked Leliana straight in the eyes, “I haven’t seen anyone I recognize from Tevinter. I would tell you, now, if I had. I will tell you, if I do.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Peredura. I think it would be safe to say, if you do see someone from your past, someone who had known Vivianus, that he would likely be our assassin.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

Josephine coughed, “Not exactly…”

“What she’s trying not to say,” Varric stepped forward, “Is that at one point, everyone’s been suspect. Even Chuckles here.”

“Me?” Solas sounded a bit surprised.

“Well, you did show up rather conveniently. And you’re a male mage. Luckily Josephine pointed out the fact that you run around barefoot, so you couldn’t have left a boot print in the snow beneath the bridge.”

“That’s comforting, I suppose.”

“Sera, too.”

“What?” Peredura sounded shocked. “No, not Sera, she’s a friend…”

“She also approached us, wanting to join,” Leliana pointed out carefully.

“So did Bull,” Peredura countered. “And Vivienne. And a lot of other people.”

“Bull isn’t a mage. And Vivienne wears the wrong type of boot, even if her feet were large enough.”

“Sera’s not a mage. Nor male. Nor human.” Peredura was frustrated, thinking Leliana was being obtuse and unreasonable.

“She might be working for this mage,” the spymaster continued unperturbed. “She was with you just before the incident at the lake. You were chasing her, when you went out over the ice. It could very well be, she had been hired by the mage to come here, make friends with you, and find a way to lure you onto the lake.”

Peredura was shaking her head, unwilling to believe it.

“What happened that day? What caused you to chase her?”

“I…” she bit her lip, stealing a glance at Cullen, who was resolutely avoiding eye contact again. She was alone in her defense of Sera. And, truthfully, the timing was a little too perfect. Maybe the mage had been hiding beneath the bridge, thinking and planning, and just happened to look up and see her foolishly chasing Sera over the ice. Maybe. Or maybe not.

“Sera and I were, well, she kissed me. Then she started talking about how she felt, and asking how I felt, and I didn’t understand. I’d never been kissed before. I didn’t know that I could feel differently than her, and that it was okay. We, well, when it looked like I didn’t feel the same way, she got mad, started walking away, and I went after her. I didn’t want to lose her as a friend, that was all. When I got to the shore, I started hearing your scouts shouting that the ice was thin. But Sera was already out there, and I didn’t think she had heard, so I tried to warn her.” She focused on Leliana’s face as she concluded, “I see how it could look, how Sera may be involved, but she’s done nothing since. It might be coincidence.”

“There are an awful lot of coincidences piling up.”

Peredura nodded, agreeing with Leliana’s statement. “Agreed. So, what can I do?”

“Nothing…”

“It’s me he’s trying to kill,” she argued, growing a little miffed at Leliana’s heavy-handedness, feeling like she was being told to hide behind a tree and let everyone else risk their lives—for her. “What can I do to prevent that? How can I help you keep me safe?”

“First,” she crossed her arms and cocked a hip, “Don’t do anything dangerous, like stand next to a barrel of pitch, or run out over a frozen lake, or walk around without your escort.”

“I’ve chosen them specifically to guard you,” Cullen added. “They’re all former templars. They can keep you safe from mages.”

There were templars in Tevinter, Peredura knew, but they were little more than law enforcers on the payroll of the most powerful magisters—like her late master. She didn’t have as much confidence in them as Cullen seemed to. Still, it was a thoughtful gesture, and she nodded her gratitude. “But everything I do is dangerous,” she added. “I’m the only one who can close rifts, remember? I have to run all over Ferelden and Orlais, fighting demons, not to mention the rogue mages and templars we come across.”

“Which is why we send Cassandra and so many others with you, whenever you have to leave Haven. Also, with a bit of training, you should be better able to handle yourself, should you need to,” Cullen offered.

“I’ve taken training,” she protested, wondering why no one ever seemed to notice she had some skill. Sure, that leaping shot maneuver had been sheer luck, but if she could do it once, she could do it again. “With Varric. And Sera…”

“Varric’s specialty is with the crossbow,” Cullen countered. “No offense, but that is a singular weapon, and not something you could use. As for Sera, well, I’m not too sure how much formal training she’s had, either. Regardless of her trustworthiness,” he added when it looked like Leliana was about to protest. He let out a heavy breath, “I want you to start training. With my recruits. Whenever you’re not out on some mission. Every morning at least until noon, perhaps longer if it’s needed. Understood?”

She tried to imagine what training with Cullen would be like. She didn’t know if he could use a bow, but maybe he had other training in mind. Either way, the thought of spending her mornings with him made her heart, well, sort of, hiccough. “Yes, ser,” she nodded.

“And keep your eyes open,” Cassandra stressed. “Forewarned is forearmed. Now that you know you’re in danger, watch for this mage.”

“And if you see anyone familiar,” Leliana pressed, “Anyone you recognize from Tevinter, from your past or Vivianus’ past, let us know immediately. Is that clear?”

Again she nodded, “Perfectly, ma’am.”

“Good.” Leliana continued to look like she wanted to be upset, but even she had to admit Peredura was handling the news better than hoped. “Now, if that business is settled, let’s discuss the offer we have from the Grand Enchanter.”

“It’s a trap,” Cullen muttered darkly. “The mages have already broken from their Circles, denounced any sort of authority or safeguard against misuse of magic, declared themselves outlaws, attacked our forces as well as templars. Now we’re to believe they want to join the Inquisition willingly?”

“Whether or not it’s a trap, we can use them. Magic created the Breach…”

Peredura tried to tune out the argument. It was nothing new, the same argument they had before she left to recruit Blackwall. The same argument they’d been having ever since she came back from Val Royeaux. She sighed, feeling like she was blending into the wooden paneling once more, a part of but apart from the others.

“We could go over this again and again, but we’re only saying the same things, and getting nowhere,” Josephine commented.

“You’re going to have to make a decision soon,” Peredura heard herself saying into the pause after her statement. She had been thinking to herself, never dreaming her words could find their way out of her mouth.

“What would you suggest?” Josephine asked.

“I… me…?”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t voiced an opinion,” she continued, “And you are a very important part of this Inquisition. After all, it is the Herald of Andraste everyone wishes to see. So, whom do you think should we approach?”

She felt that lump tighten in her throat again. They all looked at her, waiting for her response, waiting for her to make a decision, to throw her meager weight behind one side or the other.

Mages or templars.

“We’ll go to Redcliffe,” she heard herself saying, “And speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona. She approached us,” she continued before Cullen could argue. “Maybe this is a trap, but at least we know where to find the mages. It would take time to search for the templars, and who knows how much time we have? Besides, magic created the Breach; magic can close it.”

Cullen, surprisingly, didn’t argue. “Who will you take with you?”

“Cassandra,” Peredura continued, “And Varric.”

“And Bull, no doubt,” Cassandra commented dryly.

“It’s nice and balanced,” she offered, her thoughts half a step in front of her mouth this time. “An elf, a human, a dwarf, and a qunari. It would speak a lot for the Inquisition, that we’re open and accepting of all races.”

“But we’re the only ones who know you’re an elf,” Leliana countered, “Nor do I think you want everyone to know. It would raise a lot of inconvenient questions.”

“Oh, right,” she sighed, thinking of how hard it had been to tell these people—her friends—the truth. Having to tell strangers, like the Grand Enchanter, would be humiliating and tortuous.

“We’ll take Solas with us,” Cassandra decided.

“Me? A… what do you call me, a hedge mage? My very presence would affront their sensibilities.”

“You and Sera are the only elves—besides Peredura—high in the Inquisition. Sera is, forgive me,” she nodded to Peredura, “A bit undiplomatic, even if she wasn’t suspect. Having a mage in the group would be a good idea. Again, balance. And Vivienne is too pro-circle; trust me, she would be a greater affront than your self-trained background.”

“That’s settled, then,” Cullen rapped the table with his knuckles. “It’ll be Peredura, Cassandra, Varric, Bull, and Solas. When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Day break.” Cassandra’s statement was strong and confident. Absently, Peredura wondered why they always had to leave at dawn. They could leave this afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon; there were lots of lovely times to leave for a trip. But Cassandra always had to leave at first light.

Peredura sighed. Good thing she liked mornings.

* * *

Why was she doing this, Peredura asked herself, standing outside in the predawn light, her feet slowly freezing in the snow—even though she was wearing boots. Two former templars, different ones than yesterday, stood a discreet distance from her, pretending to scan for danger while trying not to notice her hesitation just outside their commander’s tent.

“Kaffas,” she muttered under her breath. She was a grown woman. Standing outside the tent of a grown man. What she wanted to do would take all of a minute, maybe less. There was no reason for her to feel guilty or foolish or ashamed…

“Commander Cullen?” she called. Though the words came out impulsively, before she lost her nerve, she kept the tone soft. Just in case he was sleeping. Which was very probable.

“Come,” was the answer, strong and slightly curious and very much awake. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slipped her thin frame past the tent flaps.

It was darker inside the tent, but not by much, the single lamp turned up full and hanging from a hook in one of the posts. On a small camp table beneath it was a half-finished bowl of porridge and a day-old roll. A small wooden box lay open next to these, strange tools inside and a small vial that glowed with the light blue of lyrium. Cullen stood next to the light, already dressed, though he had yet to don his breastplate or mantle. He had his shoulder to the opening, a report in his hands, and looked up as she entered.

“Madam Herald,” he sounded surprised. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; it wasn’t like she had ever come to his tent before. But the formal tone put her off. Yesterday he had said he wanted to know her name, so he wouldn’t have to call her by her title. “I thought you’d be gone already.”

“Oh, ah, no, net yet,” she stood just within the tent, her fingers toying with the ties to the flaps behind her back. “Soon.”

He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, waiting for something.

“Well, um,” she mentally kicked herself. “I wanted to give you this, before I left.” She pulled something small and flat from her pocket and handed it over to him. “I suppose I could have given it to the servants, to launder, and give back to you, but I wanted to make sure, myself. It was thoughtful of you, lending it to me yesterday. And I wanted to, well, to return it, the favor, the thoughtfulness. So, um, here it is.”

“My handkerchief?” he looked at the neatly folded and creased square of white cloth, clean and dry and… He lifted it a little closer to his face. “What is that smell?”

“Oh, um,” she felt her cheeks begin to heat up, though just a moment before she had been freezing cold. She supposed it was because the tent was warm, and she was already wearing her helmet, the cheek guards hanging loose. “I was told the scent was…”

“Lilacs!”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“My mother,” he paused, staring at the handkerchief with a strange look on his face. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, inhaling the scent again. “My mother had a row of lilac bushes behind our house when I was little. I remember the smell, how they’d bloom every spring, the bright purple color.”

“I’ve never seen a lilac bush,” she said very quietly, “They sound beautiful.”

“They are,” he agreed. He opened his eyes suddenly, piercing her with his gaze, while he questioned her, “Did you wash this yourself? With your own soap?”

“I, er, well, yes, I did, I wanted to make sure it was clean, before giving it back to you.” Then it was her turn to ask, “How did you know it was my own soap?”

“The smell,” he gestured with the cloth. “The other day, after your, er, dip into the lake, when I came by to check on you after your bath, I could smell something floral about you. I figured it was your soap, though I didn’t place the lilac until just now.” He had that strange look on his face, just for a moment longer. Then he tossed the handkerchief down onto the table beside his half-finished breakfast.

Her eyes followed it down to the table. “It’s beautiful embroidery.”

He had noticed that the small box was open, and tried to close it inconspicuously. “Hmm,” his eyes returned to the report in his hand as he answered. “My sister. Mia. Every few years, she tracks me down, sends a letter and a package of some stuff she thinks would be thoughtful. This last time it was handkerchiefs. A score of them.” He looked up from his clipboard, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you ever need one…”

“I’ll be sure to ask,” she finished, smiling just as slightly. At some point she had moved further into the tent, away from the flaps, closer to his side. She could look up at his face, and in the lantern light, his eyes looked green… “What color are your eyes?”

Cullen was shocked, not exactly sure how they had gone from talking about handkerchiefs to flirting over eye color. “I… I… beg your pardon?”

“Your eyes look green this morning,” she said, her tone suggesting she was slightly preoccupied, her own eyes flickering back and forth between his. He tried to take a step back, but she pursued, her stare and intentions persistent. “Now that I think about it, they usually look light brown. But the other day, when I fell into the lake, and you came in after me, I thought your eyes were green, like they look today. But, they’re both colors, aren’t they. Brown in the center, and green around the edges…”

“They’re hazel.” She was far too close into his personal space, making him want to swallow thickly. Not that he minded, exactly, but, well, it wasn’t proper. He had reports to work on, recruits to train, resources to procure… And she was the Herald of Andraste, respected, above reproach. Even if she had until recently been a slave, she was now much more than that. And he was commander of her troops.

“Madam Herald!” a voice called from somewhere outside.

He seized his opportunity to escape. “Sounds like Seeker Cassandra is ready to depart.”

Peredura heard him, the thought of Cassandra looking for her bringing her out of her trance. She blinked, wondering how she had gotten so close to Cullen. “Um, yes, I suppose I should get going. I’ll, er,” her voice dribbled down to nothing. She was suddenly feeling hot all over again, her heart hammering in her chest as if she had been running for miles. “I’ll see you when I get back.” Then she fled.

She reached the tent opening, her fingers fumbling as she tried to brush the flaps aside before exiting. She tripped, stumbled hurriedly away from Cullen’s tent, and righted herself. Then she fastened her cheek guards and looked for Cassandra, trying very, very hard to forget how silly she had just been acting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, breathe. Just breathe for a second. Now, if you wanna rant at me for anything, go right ahead, I can take it, but please do so discreetly. Please don’t put any spoilers or anything specific in your review, just in case someone is reading these reviews, trying to decide whether or not to read the story. If they read some major plot point (like my Inquisitor is an elf, not a human), well, it kinda spoils the surprise, ya know? Thanks ;D


	6. Stay the Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews. I'm glad you enjoyed the twist. I wanted to set it up, to let you see it coming (or at least let you think you see it coming), but not all of it. I thought for sure someone would find a hole I forgot to plug.
> 
> Also, sorry for how long it's been since my last posting; I am working on two other stories. If you ever wonder what I'm up to, check out my profile; I try to keep that updated on what's going on, when to expect another chapter, etc.
> 
> Anyway, on with the chapter!

"This is time consuming," grumbled Bull. "Go to Val Royeaux. Run back to Haven. Talk, talk, talk. Head out to Redcliffe. Find a Vint running the show. Run back to Haven for more talking." He kicked at a log threatening to roll out of the fire. "Too much running and talking. Too much time wasted traveling."

"It will get easier," Cassandra answered, taking a drink from the wine skin before passing it along. "Soon we'll have a horsemaster at Haven; then there will be mounts to ride."

"Like there's a horse that could carry me," he groused, or perhaps boasted.

"You qunari don't need mounts," Varric quipped, taking his pull at the skin. "The horses are for those of us who can't keep up."

"Still," Bull sighed, accepting the wine, "There's too much time spent traveling. We need someone out here, with us, to make decisions on the spot. Someone who has authority. Someone who will say, 'We'll go there,' or 'We'll do that.' Someone who can lead!"

"You volunteering?"

"Nah," Bull brushed aside Varric's offer. "I'm too impatient. I'd have us running all over Ferelden picking fights and chasing down dragons. Oh… that gives me an idea. Boss? Hey, Boss!" Bull slapped Peredura on the knee where she sat, cross-legged, staring into the fire. "Know of any good dragon hunting grounds around here?" He shoved the skin into her hands.

"Oh, ah, what?" she sputtered, coming out of her thoughts in time to keep the wine from spilling onto her leggings.

"Dragons. Do you know of any nearby? I need something challenging. Something that could kill me. Something that will heat my blood and wake me up!"

"Oh," she blinked at him, the skin forgotten in her hands. "Ah, no, no I don't. I wouldn't know where to look for a dragon."

"I heard rumors of one to the east," Solas answered, "When we passed through the crossroads. It's in the opposite direction of Haven, however."

Bull made a disgusted noise before grumbling, "Figures. I could really use a good fight."

"What, the two rifts we encountered in Redcliffe weren't enough? If you're not going to have any, could you pass it on?" Solas' second question was directed quietly at Peredura. She started from her thoughts, saw his gesture towards the skin, and handed the wine over.

"Nah, not really," Bull answered the first question. "I mean, it was serious there for a bit, and those weird time distorting circles were… weird." He paused to sigh, "But rifts are starting to get old. I need something… new… different… challenging."

"Are we still talking about fighting," Varric leaned back, his lips quirking, "Or something else?"

Bull leaned forward and returned the expression, "I'm open to suggestions."

"No, wait, I wasn't suggesting… I wasn't meaning… oh, shit…" he finished, realizing Bull was teasing him.

The qunari laughed at Varric's hurried denial, quickly letting him off the hook. Then he turned and slugged Peredura's shoulder, gently. "Hey, Boss, what's got you so down?"

Peredura was again staring into the fire, her thoughts as distant as her gaze. She lifted her face a little and hummed, her bangs parting to show first the tip of her nose and then her eyes. "Oh, um, nothing. Just thinking."

"About that Vint, what was his name? Alexius?"

"No, not about him," she honestly denied. Mostly.

"Oh, it's someone else then?" pressed Bull. "Let me guess. Ah… that elven mage who met us just inside Redcliffe, Lysas. No? Maybe that young man who served us drinks at the Gull and Lantern; he did keep smiling at you. Oh, oh, maybe it was that dark and handsome recruit we met at the crossroads." When he couldn't get a reaction from her, he threw out somewhat despairingly, "Commander Cullen?"

"Wha…? Who… you… he… no, I… it's… never…" she stuttered, much to his continued delight, her words and tone of voice telling the Ben-Hassrath more than she was willing to share. Seeing his amused smile made her want to blush, and she pressed her lips together tightly to silence the babble. Then she finally managed to wrestle control of her flustered self, stringing together a set of words in an intelligent manner. "What are you talking about?"

Bull's lips slid into a flirty little grin. "Someone has staked a claim to your thoughts. I figured it had to be a crush, some sort of timid romance about to bloom. Just trying to guess who it might be…"

"No," she cut him off, perhaps a little too quickly, ducking her head to hide behind her hair. "No, I, ah, was just thinking, about stuff, and I'm very tired. I think I'll go to bed. Early day and all tomorrow, lots of traveling if we want to make Haven by nightfall, I should rest while I can."

"Good thinking," agreed Cassandra. "We should all go to bed early tonight. I'll take the first watch."

"I'll take the first watch, Seeker," offered Varric as the others started getting up to head for their tents. He grabbed her arm and waited for them to shuffle off before he continued in a softer voice. "You've noticed how the Herald's been acting, haven't you? Something's been bothering her ever since we left Redcliffe. It might not be important, but then again," he watched her duck into the tent she shared with Cassandra, "We did unexpectedly meet a magister."

Cassandra sighed; she hated complications. "You think she does know Alexius, from her time as a slave."

"I think," Varric clarified, "Something's got her worried."

"Then you should speak with her, get her to tell you…"

Varric was shaking his head before her words trailed away. "The Herald won't speak with me, not if it's something personal. And she definitely didn't feel comfortable telling all of us at once, even sitting casually around a campfire. But she trusts you. She thinks of you as a big sister, remember? She'll share it with you; all you have to do is ask."

She made a noise of disgust, but she had to admit he was right. Something was bothering Peredura, and as the only other woman in the group, it was up to her to offer the girl a friend in whom she could confide. Leliana would be better at this, but they were still a day from Haven, and whatever was wrong might not wait. "Very well!"

Varric watched her stalk off, boots crushing the forest loam, one hand gripping the crossbar of her sword, shoulders back, a determined look set into her features. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Cassandra wasn't the best person for this, tackling every situation as a military campaign, but they had no other choice. They needed to know if whatever was bothering Peredura was important, like a possible suspect for her would-be assassin, or if it was as Bull guessed, someone who had caught her eye and was giving her her first crush.

Either way, poor girl.

Cassandra coughed outside the tent, giving warning to Peredura that she was coming inside. It wasn't entirely necessary—as the only women in the group they of course shared a tent, so no one else would be entering without permission—but it was considered polite. As it turned out, she needn't have bothered; Peredura was slow at taking off her armor. The young woman was sitting on her bedroll, her sash and coat off to the side, her fingers at an awkward angle fumbling with a buckle near her collarbone.

"Here," Cassandra commanded as she knelt beside her, "I'll help you with your armor, then you can help me with mine."

"Oh," she sounded surprised, but allowed Cassandra to undo the rest of the fastenings, "I thought you had the first watch."

"Varric volunteered."

They grew quiet, both of them unsure what to talk about, or how to bring up what was on their minds. After Cassandra finished with the last of the buckles, Peredura was able to finally shrug out of her armored vest and breathe easier. She gave Cassandra a timid little smile before moving around to undo the fastenings of her armor.

Their little group had decided to only pack the minimal amount of supplies so they could move light and quick; therefore the inside of the tent was bare except for two bedrolls and a single candle. Peredura struggled a little, between the faint light and the unfamiliar buckles, taking far longer than Cassandra would have on her own. Yet the Seeker remained calm, patient, refusing to brush her clumsy hands out of the way and take over. She sensed Peredura needed this, like a sort of bonding ritual between two girls—or something like that.

But her patience could only last so long.

"What is it?" she finally sighed.

"I'm just having a little trouble with this last clasp," Peredura deliberately misunderstood her question. "There, you should be able to take the breastplate off, now."

Cassandra studied her a moment, her expression as dark as her hair, but she didn't press the issue. She ducked out of the loosened armor and set it off to the side.

Peredura waited until Cassandra moved to her side of the tent, before returning to her own bedroll. She sat there a moment, chewing her lip, her teeth worrying it to the point where she drew blood. The sudden taste of metal on her tongue told her what she had done, and feeling guilty—though she couldn't have said why—she pulled deeper within herself, her hair falling forwards like a curtain to block out the world. Sucking on her lip to hide the bleeding, she tugged off her boots, refusing to look up, and laid down on the bedroll.

She rolled over, her back to the Seeker, and pulled the blanket up over her shoulder. Another consideration in traveling light, they hadn't packed any sort of clothes for sleeping in—though that was a luxury Peredura had never known, so she could easily endure its absence. She listened to the noises the other woman made, the soft grunts of frustration as Cassandra tugged off her boots, the soft slap as her under-padding was tossed off to the side, the shifting and shuffling as she fought to find a bit of comfort on the half-frozen ground. At last there was a definitive huff as she blew the candle out, plunging the tent into darkness, as even the campfire outside had been put out by then.

Peredura didn't like the dark. Her cell had been dark, the shadows hiding rodents and pests and spiders. Yet she could never bring herself to ask Cassandra to leave the candle burning. Only children were afraid of the dark, and she wasn't a child, she was a woman, the Herald of Andraste, the only one who could close rifts and—if they could somehow get the mages out from underneath the control of the Tevinter Magisters—close the Breach. Anyone who could do all that, anyone who was so powerful and important and mature, shouldn't be afraid of the dark.

But lying there, in the dark, with nothing to distract her, her thoughts returned to those things that had been worrying her. Try as she might, she could not banish them from her mind, she could not reason through them with logic, she could not hide from them or outrun them.

"Madam Herald," she heard Cassandra's voice coming out of the darkness, and she wanted to cling to it like a child clinging to her mother's skirts, "Er, Peredura, something is troubling you. Tell me what it is."

"I… I don't know…" she started, and stopped just as suddenly. Buried under indecision, she returned to sucking her lip.

Cassandra sighed, again. This was costing more patience than she could afford. "Is it the magister? Alexius? Do you remember him from your past? You know you can tell me, Peredura. Was he a peer of your master?"

"No, no, no," Peredura insisted. "I really don't remember him. Honest. He's not familiar to me at all. It's just…" Her words faded away into the darkness, swallowed by the black.

"Are you… crying?"

"What?"

"You're making some sort of strange noise over there," Cassandra continued, "Like you're sobbing, or sucking on something."

"My lip," she answered quickly, responding to her commanding tone. Then, having second thoughts, she elaborated, "I, um, bit it, by accident, trying to undo that buckle, knocked my fist into my chin, drew blood, didn't want to bleed on the blanket, so, um, I'm sucking on it…" It was a lie, and she was afraid both of them knew it, but thankfully Cassandra didn't pursue it.

"Then what is wrong?"

Peredura took a deep breath, wondering how to say it. Ever since they'd told her there was someone trying to kill her, she'd been looking at every shadow, jumping at every loud noise, feeling her skin crawl whenever she was alone thinking that someone was watching her. She tried not to let it bother her, she tried not to let it show, but something she had seen kept coming back to her. It hadn't bothered her at the time, but now it kept pestering her and making her question.

"Seeker Cassandra…" her words sputtered out, half strangled. She rolled onto her back, not quite facing the other woman, but willing to cease shutting her out. "Seeker, can, um, can someone, someone we know, someone we trust, can someone like that, someone at Haven, be a mage, and we don't know it?"

Her eyes were wide in the dark, hungry for any sign of light or movement, staring blankly at the emptiness. Her ears could still hear, however; there was no shortage of sounds in the darkness. She could hear Cassandra blow a harsh breath through her nose, shifting in her own blankets, but taking her fumbling words and childish concern seriously. "Whom do you have in mind?"

"Oh, well," she hedged, unwilling to put it into words lest speaking it made it true, or made her out to be foolish. "No one, really, it's just, well, is it possible? Could a mage disguise him- or herself as a normal person? Could someone do that, fool us all, even Leliana?"

The scoff was reassuring somehow. "It is doubtful anything could escape Leliana's notice. But tell me, what happened that made you start to worry about this? Did you see someone who isn't supposed to be a mage do something that might look like magic?"

"No, not exactly," she evaded again. Her mind filled with the memory, of him standing there, an open box on the table, the pale blue of lyrium shining within, how he tried to cover it up without drawing attention to it…

Only mages took lyrium, to resupply their magic—those who didn't practice blood magic, that is. But, Maker please no, it couldn't be him. He couldn't be the male mage trying to kill her. It would be too cruel a twist, too confusing, too preposterous. Kaffas, he had SAVED her life at the lake!

Yet she kept coming back to one thought: only mages took lyrium.

"I, ah," she paused to chew her lip, felt the sharp prick of pain where she had already bitten it, and let go, "I saw someone, with lyrium."

"You saw someone taking lyrium? Someone who wasn't a mage?" Cassandra pressed for clarification.

"No, I didn't see them take it," she fought against the impulse to describe the scene, or even name the gender of the person. Maker, please, let there be another explanation. "I saw someone, a person who isn't a mage, and there was lyrium nearby, in a little wooden box, with these strange tools, but they closed it so I couldn't see…"

The noise coming from Cassandra was sudden, and sounded somewhat like… relieved laughter? "Let me guess, this person was a templar, one of your honor guard, perhaps?"

"Oh, um," Peredura was left bewildered, both by Cassandra's sudden relief and by the sudden question. "Yes, they were…" she meant to finish that the person had been a templar, though not someone in her guard, but Cassandra cut her off.

"Well, there you have it," she stated as if everything was explained.

It wasn't explained, not to Peredura's satisfaction. "Templars… take lyrium… like mages…?"

"Yes, of course they do," she stated, as if it was something everyone should know, not realizing she was painfully pointing out Peredura's ignorance. "It's where they get their power. Now, no more worries. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."

She laid there, listening to Cassandra shifting in her bedroll again, trying to get comfortable. Peredura didn't bother, knowing if she shifted away from the rock poking her shoulder, there'd be another poking her in her ribs or someplace else. Sleeping on the ground was always uncomfortable, but she was used to discomfort.

No, Peredura didn't notice the uneven ground, her mind trying to reason through Cassandra's statements and cure her ignorance on her own. Templars take lyrium, like mages. And also like mages, lyrium gives them their power. What power, she wondered. The templars in Tevinter never showed any sort of power, nothing magical or, or, or un-magical, or whatever. Then again, they didn't take lyrium. Of course, she'd never seen the templars here do anything out of the ordinary, nothing that would explain this mysterious power they got from lyrium. Yet Cassandra seemed sure of herself, and she trusted Cassandra, so she chose to believe her.

She'd seen the box in Cullen's tent, and she knew Cullen had been a templar before he joined the Inquisition, therefore it wasn't unusual that he took lyrium. Yet she couldn't help but wonder why he continued to take it, thinking he might have wanted to stop once he left the order, but maybe he…

She shook her head, deciding it didn't matter. What did matter was that, despite the lyrium, Cullen was NOT a mage. Now that she had affirmation, she realized just how silly and foolish the thought had been. And though she wanted to ask Cassandra more questions about templars and lyrium, she didn't want to admit to her ignorance—nor give her the idea that it had been Cullen she'd been worried about. She was such a stupid, foolish girl…

"What else?" floated a weary breath from Cassandra's side of the tent.

"What?" she answered quickly, wondering if she had been thinking out loud, feeling her cheeks burning and—for the first time ever—thankful it was so dark her blush couldn't be seen.

"Something more is bothering you, isn't it? What else?"

Peredura swallowed, still not wanting to talk any more about templars; no matter how many questions she had, her embarrassment over appearing stupid outweighed her thirst for knowledge. Instead she grabbed the other little thought that had been nagging at her and answered, "I, um, I think I recognized that other Tevinter mage, Dorian Pavus."

"WHAT?!"

* * *

 

"Right," Cassandra leaned forwards, the palms of her hands pressed onto the top of the table, "We'll go over this again. We arrived at Redcliffe, only to find…"

Peredura was tired. Scratch that, she was beyond tired. What was more than tired? Exhausted? Done in? It didn't matter, she supposed, not enough to make her want to waste the energy just to discover the right word. She couldn't even muster the ability to yawn as the discussion droned on without her. Maker, but this meeting had been going on for hours.

After her revelation to Cassandra the night before, the Seeker had wanted to leave for Haven that very moment. They may have, too, if it hadn't been for a very grouchy Bull staring her down for waking him just minutes after he'd fallen asleep. They all had returned to bed, but Peredura had slept little, feeling anxious and nervous over Cassandra's strong reaction, afraid that somehow she had done something terribly wrong. In the morning, they had started a lot earlier than originally planned, and had trekked long and hard throughout the day, only to make it back home after suppertime. Then, despite the lateness of the hour, Cassandra had insisted on calling a meeting to include the two of them, Leliana, Josephine, and—she somehow found the energy for her cheeks to blush—Cullen.

It wasn't fair; Varric and Solas and The Iron Bull got to sleep, why couldn't she?

"Madam Herald! Pay attention!"

She jumped at Cassandra's command, hearing something in her tone of voice—though not the words—that reminded her too much of how her former master would speak to her. "I… what… yes… um…" she trembled, knowing she'd been caught with her mind wandering, trying to recall what had just been said. She was falling back into her old habits of not wanting to disappoint others, of fearing punishment or…

"Cassandra," Cullen sighed, coming to her rescue, "She's tired. You both are, after traveling so hard to reach Haven. It's late and she needs her sleep. We all do."

"I want to go over this once more," she insisted, unwilling to say in front of Peredura that she was sure the young woman was keeping something from them. She hoped, if she could get Peredura to repeat herself often enough, some of what she was hiding might slip out by accident.

"We've gone over it several times already," Leliana took up the cause and earned Peredura's gratitude, "There's nothing new. Yes, Madam Herald recognized the term Venatori, but not Magister Alexius."

"She did recognize the other magister, Pavus."

"Altus," Peredura corrected absently.

"What was that?" Josephine asked, her quill poised above her board.

"Oh, um," she felt her cheeks flush deeper, this time because she felt she had spoken out of turn and corrected her betters. She knew she was an equal of everyone in that room, but those old feelings and habits were still too easily resumed and irritatingly immune to logic. She withdrew behind the soft brown curtain of her hair and stared at her toes as she clarified in a submissive tone, "Dorian Pavus is an altus, not a magister. Not all mages are magisters in Tevinter; only a mage who's a member of the Magisterium is called a magister. The rest are called altus or laetans."

"Whatever he's called," Cassandra waved her misuse of the term aside and pressed for clarification, "You did recognize him."

"I…" she struggled to answer, to find an answer, feeling she should do her best to obey. But it had been from her time as a slave, not too recent, yet not so very long ago. She didn't want to remember…

_…walking down the hallway of an unfamiliar mansion, faithfully following her master, feeling shaky and sweaty as the opeigh began to wear off, knowing a blood magic ritual was coming, wanting it to come, to be over, so she could return to the peace and nothingness that was so preferable to the pain of knowing… seeing a door open off to the side after her master had passed, growing more curious as she came out of her stupor, looking at the face pressed to the crack of the door, handsome and young, light eyes in contrast to the dark hair, kind eyes but full of hurt and betrayal, staring at her master, staring at the other magister, staring at her…_

"It was a few years ago," she stated as clearly as she could, "I think. A magister had asked my master to perform blood magic, and he brought me to the magister's estate. There was another man there, younger, but I only saw him for a moment. It might have been Dorian Pavus."

"What was the ritual?" Josephine asked, curious, wanting her notes to be complete.

"Oh, um," Peredura found her lower lip, but the place where she'd bitten it last night was still tender, so she let it go. "My master ended up not performing the ritual, so I don't know what it was. He didn't share with me ahead of time what he would use me for; I would find out as it happened."

"Why wasn't the ritual performed?"

Now Leliana was asking questions, digging into the personal and painful memories; so much for gratitude. Yet Peredura continued to feel compelled to answer. "I don't know why not. We went there, he talked with the other magister for a bit, we waited in a chamber, then we left. I only saw Dorian—if it was him," she vainly tried to throw doubt on her own words, "For a moment, off to the side, and he didn't speak with my master. Then we left without performing the ritual, and I didn't ask questions. I was only glad, well…" She finally managed to force herself to stop talking. Sore or no, her lip found itself being mangled between her teeth; some things simply shouldn't be shared.

Cassandra was still convinced, rightly, that Peredura was holding back from them. "And the word, Venatori? What does it mean?"

"I don't know," she shook her head, her lip gaining a brief reprieve. "I've heard it before, I think my master called himself that, or used the term somehow, but I can't remember clearly. I only know it's familiar, though Magister Alexius is not familiar."

"Yet this Pavus person is familiar."

Cassandra sounded triumphant, but Peredura couldn't be bothered to wonder why. She nodded in answer, back to chewing her lip, too tired to answer verbally. The room was beginning to grow darker, making her think the candles were dying. Someone should light fresh ones.

"She's told us all she can," Cullen's voice was soft, and very reasonable sounding. "Look at her; she's dead on her feet. Let's adjourn for the night and reconvene in the morning. We can go over it all again then if you wish, but after a full night's rest."

A full night of sleep. Maker, but that sounded wonderful.

"I'm only concerned," Cassandra's thick accent was getting hard to follow, "Because Pavus is planning on showing up here with information that could help us. A male mage, a Tevinter, who may recognize Peredura from her past, who offers aid to the Inquisition even at the cost of betraying his mentor. It sounds too good to be true. It sounds like he may be the assassin we've been looking for."

"All the way from Redcliffe?" Leliana doubted. Peredura wanted to agree with her, she knew Dorian couldn't be her assassin. But then again, maybe, if he knew who she was, who her master had been, what she knew about him…

"He may not have been in Redcliffe this whole time. For all we know, he could have arrived there just before we did," Cassandra countered. "There haven't been any attempts since the tampering with the healing potions, leaving plenty of time for him to reach Redcliffe. And knowing what his mentor was planning, he could reasonably assume that we'd go there to speak with the mages, only to find Alexius in control…"

"Seeker Pentaghast," Cullen broke over her words, "We can stand here and go over it again and again, and make all the suppositions and inferences you desire, but we'd accomplish nothing other than chasing our tails around in circles. It's late, all of us are loosing our ability to think straight, and at any moment she's going to collapse from exhaustion."

Peredura wondered whom he was talking about collapsing. Curiously she lifted her face to peek between her bangs, only to find his gloved finger was pointing at her. Oh. Right. Well, perhaps he had a point: her mind was a mess and inundated with too many remembrances of her time as a slave, her body was trembling with exhaustion and lack of food and straining to keep her on her feet, her emotions were dark and mercurial like a deep eddy overflowing with long-ingrained and unreasonable fears…

Cassandra made one of her trademark noises of disgust. Peredura took her eyes off of Cullen's finger to peek at her next, only to find Cassandra studying her in return. "I suppose you're right. Fine. We'll adjourn for the evening. Madam Herald," she gave a short bow, "I hope you can understand, it's only my concern for your safety that has me so insistent that we prove, one way or the other, what Pavus' intentions may be."

There was a pause, as if Cassandra was waiting for something. Peredura figured, since everyone was staring at her, that she should answer somehow. She gave a nod and mumbled an, "Of course."

At long last she seemed to have done something right. Cassandra's expression lightened—just a little bit—and she inclined her head.

"Excuse me," Josephine shifted past them all, "But it's going to take hours for me to transcribe these notes into something intelligible. I'll be up half the night…" she continued to murmur to herself as she hastened out the door.

Peredura thought she had the right idea: escape before Cassandra changed her mind. She forced her legs to obey, put one foot towards the door before bringing the other one forwards. Then repeat. The doorway neared, looming larger, but just as she reached the frame Cassandra's voice sounded again.

"A moment of your time, if you would be so kind, Commander."

Relief flooded through Peredura, almost making her faint. Cullen was the target; she was in the clear. She had felt him close behind her, following her, gaining on her thanks to her slower paces, but then the heat from his body retreated as he agreed to Cassandra's request. Her back felt cold without his protective presence.

She slipped outside the war room, took a few extra steps for good measure, and stopped to take a deep breath. On either side and a few paces in front of the door stood her honor guard, two former templars hand-picked by Commander Cullen, their faces continually changing from day to day, though their faithfulness and attentiveness remained constant. Templars, she mused to herself, non-mages who took lyrium and had some sort of mysterious power. The idea of asking her guard about this power of theirs was dismissed as quickly as it was thought up; showing her ignorance to those she considered friends was hard—total strangers would be even worse. Instead she gave them a very timid, shy, partially hidden smile, but they didn't answer with any gesture or word.

Maybe their power had something to do with being highly disciplined.

"Madam Herald," Leliana's voice drifted over her shoulder. She glanced up as the older woman walked around to her side. "Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

"Oh, um," briefly her lip hid between her teeth, like a masochist seeking pain, "No, I was just thinking. Thank you, though. I should, um, be going, now."

Leliana studied her for a moment, the look slightly unnerving, but whatever she saw remained her little secret. "Of course. Good night, Madam Herald." She gave the two guards a quick perusal, but didn't offer them any well wishes for a restful night.

Peredura looked back at her honor guard. Leliana didn't seem to think they needed to be spoken to or acknowledged. Perhaps she should try treating them that way, like a chair to be sat upon, or a tool to be used.

Or a slave.

She shuddered. No, she could never treat another person like that, no matter their chore or position in life. Especially these brave men and women who protected her, whose duty—and a very real possibility—would be to willingly sacrifice their lives for hers. She should talk with them, get to know them, tell them she appreciated all they did for her…

"Madam Herald?" a voice warm with affinity called out to her. She blinked and found herself leaning against one of the guards while the other stood beside a very concerned-looking Commander Cullen. He was staring at her, his brow drawn and almost scowling. She gulped, feeling fear lend energy to her muscles, wondering what she had done wrong this time.

"She didn't faint, ser," the other guard was saying, "But she sort of… went blank… and Abbets there caught her and propped her up, while I went to fetch you. Should we bring her to a healer?"

Cullen straightened up. Peredura didn't notice he had been leaning over to reach her eye level. Her gaze followed him, though she remained silent, and watched him shake his head. "No, I don't think that will be necessary. All she needs is a hot meal and a full night's sleep, in that order."

"Yes, ser," the guard agreed.

"Go to the tavern," Cullen continued, issuing orders as if he had been born to the role of a commander, "Fetch a tray of food for her. Whatever they have that's still hot will be fine. And bring it to her cabin."

"Yes, ser!"

Cullen watched the soldier race off, his hazel eyes hard and constantly evaluating his men. Then he turned back to the one keeping her on her feet. He didn't speak, but he did lean forwards a little, an eyebrow lifting expectantly.

"Excuse me, Commander," the guard, Abbets she thought his name was, cleared his throat, "But bringing her Worship to her cabin, ser, I shouldn't do it alone. I mean, what if she faints? Or what if I have to protect her, by myself, while she still needs me to keep her on her feet? Can't let her drop to the snow, can I?"

Cullen's nostrils flared a moment while he exhaled. "No, of course not. I'll take the Herald, you perform your duty, soldier."

Abbets snapped to attention as Cullen reached out and took hold of Peredura.

"Come along, Madam Herald. Let's get you home."

Home, she repeated to herself, thinking the word sounded wonderful. Cullen very solicitously and very chastely put her hand through the crook of his elbow and led her towards the main door.

"You'll feel better once we're outside. The fresh air will be bracing."

She didn't want to be braced; she wanted to sleep. But he didn't give her a choice, opening the door and stepping outside, pulling her along. The cold slapped her cheeks, making her gasp and pull the air into her lungs, which left her chest tingling and stinging. It definitely woke her up. "That is cold!"

There was a sound, gentle and soft, like a chuckle coming from Cullen. "Not to worry, you'll be back inside before you know it. Your cabin's not that far."

"Far enough," she forced out from between chattering teeth. He continued to hold one of her arms, but she wrapped the other around her torso tightly, wishing she had worn a thicker coat. She risked a glance up at his face, and in an unguarded moment saw his expression without act or pretense, without the weight of authority or any concern. He strode beside her as merely a man. "You like the cold, don't you?"

She shouldn't have spoken. The mask of Commander slipped back into place as he returned her gaze, and she felt cheated somehow. "Well, er, not exactly. I do like fresh, moving air. Stuffy rooms without windows leave me feeling… itchy."

"Itchy?"

"Like ants are crawling all over my skin, and I have to get up and leave before I'm smothered to death." He saw the look on her face, and immediately regretted using such a graphic description. "Excuse me, Madam Herald, I shouldn't have been so forward."

"No, no," she tried to ease his discomfort, "It's all right. I feel the same way, about spiders, all those legs crawling over everything, and their webbing clinging to your skin…" she shuddered, though this time it wasn't from the cold. "I suppose, that's your fear, isn't it, airless spaces?"

The mask slipped again, for the briefest of moments. She felt his hand cover hers, saw the corners of his eyes bend with remembered pain, his lips part to pant and gasp at stale air. Then he was himself once more, though perhaps his calm was a little forced, and his grip on her hand a little too tight. "It… can't be put into words… quite so succinctly," he paused to force out a smile, "But I suppose that is a large part of it. We're here."

She looked off to the side to see the front door of her cabin only a few feet away. "Oh, we are."

Neither one moved to let go of the other.

Suddenly they started speaking, both at the same time, their words bumping into each other and tumbling away to fall onto the snow. Embarrassed silence followed, her cheeks turning redder, his starting to flush.

"Ladies first," he gallantly stepped aside.

"Commander," she started quickly, afraid he was pulling away, "Could you, er, that is, would you come inside for a few moments? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

That was the second time this evening that someone wanted to speak with him privately. Cassandra had asked him to stay behind after the meeting, to discuss Peredura's strange concern about templars and lyrium. And now Peredura wished to speak with him; he couldn't help but wonder if it was about the same thing. "Of course, Madam Herald." He nodded to Abbets, who took up his watch outside in the snow, and reached out to open the door for her.

The interior of the cabin was cozy, a warm fire merrily devouring logs in the fireplace, a table and chair nearby with a thick throw draped over one arm. She immediately left his side to race to the fire, sticking her hands out towards the flames before bringing them back to rub at her upper arms. "Excuse me, but I really don't like to be cold."

He followed her into the room, though remained at a distance. "You wanted to speak with me about something?"

"What was it you were saying outside just now, when we both spoke at the same time?"

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"No," she brushed her hair away from one side of her face to tuck it back behind an ear, thought better of it, and simply let it fall over her shoulder. "We'll get to that in a moment. I was just curious."

"Ah, well, I, that is to say, Seeker Cassandra spoke with me regarding your honor guard. Apparently one of them was taking lyrium in front of you, or something, giving you cause for concern. If you remember which one it was, I'll look into it…"

"No, no, that wasn't what happened, honest," she interrupted, fearing she had gotten someone into trouble.

"Peredura, if someone was taking lyrium while on duty, it could be a symptom of a serious problem…"

"You called me Peredura," she hummed, the corner of her mouth curling upwards, just a little.

That shut him up, for a moment at least, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish while he tried to find a way to explain himself. "I, ah, I mean, that is your name, isn't it, so I assume, er, that I can call you that, by your name, when we're alone, unofficially, can't I?"

She nodded, that mysterious and coy little smile still trying to claim her mouth.

He cleared his throat, trying to gather his scattered wits, wondering why she affected him so, fearing his face was about to catch fire. "So, um, what did happen, that prompted your concern over lyrium?"

"Oh," her face dropped, the smile slipping away. She tried to hide it by turning back to the fire, but he had already seen. "It was, um, your kit. I saw it, by your breakfast, the morning we left for Redcliffe. I didn't know," she peeked at him from over her shoulder, "I didn't understand, about templars and lyrium. And I, well, I was afraid… Kaffas, this is stupid!" she hissed quietly at the flames, having turned away once more. "I was afraid you might be a mage."

He was quiet behind her, palpably quiet, and she found herself turning dizzy from holding her breath. She reached out towards the mantle to steady herself and waited to hear what he might say.

"A male mage, in disguise, the one trying to kill you, perhaps? Peredura, that doesn't make sense. You do remember that I dove into the lake to save you?"

"Yes," she rolled her eyes, "I know it was stupid…"

"I wouldn't say stupid…"

"…But I couldn't find any other explanation. The templars in Tevinter don't use lyrium. Ever."

"So in your experience," his voice was closer, as if he was closing the distance between them. She resisted the urge to check. "Only mages use lyrium. And when you saw my lyrium kit, you assumed I had to be a mage. Makes sense, I suppose," he laid a calming hand on her shoulder, "But you know better now, don't you?"

"I… I guess so," she shrugged, but her other shoulder so she wouldn't dislodge his hand. "I mean, I still don't understand why the templars here take lyrium, or what this mysterious power it is they get from it. That's what I wanted to ask you," she peeked at him again, "If you could explain that part. Cassandra, well, she acted like it was obvious, and I already felt stupid for making such a silly assumption about you, so I didn't ask her, but I still don't understand…"

"You're not stupid," he denied, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. "Lacking in education in some areas, perhaps, but that doesn't mean you're stupid. Once you're taught something, once it's explained to you, you remember the lessen fairly well, even discover ways to apply it to other aspects of your life. That's not a sign of stupidity; that's a sign of great intelligence."

The compliment, coming from him, left a nice and cozy feeling inside her that no fire could ever match. It spread through her, relaxing tension and anxiety, and filling her face with warmth.

"Let me see, how to explain lyrium," he mused, letting go of her shoulder—her skin cooled without his touch. He paced away and back again, organizing his thoughts. "It's not something we speak of very often. It's a requirement, a part of being a templar, and it's a punishment if we are ever expelled from the Order. I'll…" he paused to clear his throat, keenly feeling the pull of lyrium, how little was left in his vial back inside his tent, how little he'd had that morning. He pressed his shaking fist against his thigh. "If you don't mind, I'll not go into details, but when someone becomes a templar, as part of their initiation, they take their first draught of lyrium. After that, there's no going back. It gives us… power, similar to a mage's power, but counter to it. Where a mage uses magic to affect the Fade and twist reality to their will, a templar can use their power to assert reality and block a mage from using magic."

"Truly?" she asked, so bewildered by such an incredible idea that she had to turn and face him squarely. "You can do that? Keep a mage from using magic? Even a powerful magister?"

He nodded. "Well, perhaps not I, but templars can, yes. And the more templars there are, the stronger their combined power will become."

"So that's why…" her words trailed off, too many ideas coming at her at once. First there was the vision of her master, trying to use her for blood magic, and being blocked by Cullen and his templars. A silly, girlish, flighty dream of fancy, but it was so very pleasing to envision. But then the thought occurred to her, of why Cullen had been so adamant concerning the use of templars to close the Breach. Magic had created it, so naturally he would—as a former templar—wish to counter the magic and cancel out the Breach. "I'm sorry, Cullen, I didn't understand. That's why you wanted to use templars against the Breach, instead of mages, to counter the magic that created the Breach. If I'd've known…"

He had trouble answering, having been first too lost in his thoughts surrounding lyrium, then too surprised by how easily—and how perfectly—his name sounded on her lips. "Yes, well, the decision's been made, and we'll stay the course."

"Just like that?" she wondered. "But… I understand, now, about templars. We could track them down, use them to help me close the Breach…"

"…And leave the mages in the hands of Tevinter Magisters, these self-named Venatori? No, Peredura, we couldn't do that, could we?"

She dropped her gaze demurely, "No, I suppose not. We have to help the mages. But," she bit her lip, not wanting to question his loyalty any further that night. Maker, but she already wrongly thought him a mage.

"Yes?" When she shook her head, he came up and put his hands on her shoulders, despite the strong impulse to pull her lip free from her teeth. "Out with it, young lady, before you chew a hole in your lip. But what?"

"But why? Why are you so willing to help the mages, when you would rather help the templars? Why don't you continue to argue and, and, and why not take this opportunity to switch and use the templars instead?"

"Because a decision has been made," he answered simply. "Before, when we were still discussing what to do, yes, I did argue for using the templars. But now that we've chosen the mages, we will put all the Inquisition's forces into helping them. I'll see to it personally." He gave his head a little shake, like a tilt or a shrug or some similar gesture, "I've always been a templar at heart, Peredura, a soldier. And soldiers follow orders. A decision was made. An order was given. And I will fulfill it to the best of my ability."

"Stay the course," she borrowed his statement from earlier.

"Stay the course," he agreed.

A knock sounded on the door, and Cullen left her to answer it. It was the other guard, arriving with her supper, a covered tray that practically filled the entryway with steam. "Here you go, your Worshipfulness," he came forwards to set it on the table by the lone chair, "A bit of stew that was left in the pot. Might be a tad overdone, but it's hot and tasty. Got a nice loaf of bread, too, and an apple pasty for afters," he leaned over to whisper, "Or before, if you like. No one's here to see, right?"

"Soldier!" Cullen snapped.

"Right! Yes, ser, Commander, ser," the former templar snapped to attention, and just as quickly leaned back over to whisper again, "Ah, good night, Madam Herald. Rest easy. Old Abbets and I will keep you safe tonight." He left her with a wink and a smile.

She smiled, wider than before, and mused aloud, "What is his name?"

"Devensport, I believe," Cullen answered. "Why?"

"I like him," she hummed, "And Abbets." She looked to find him staring at her. Refusing to blush, or to let her current blush deepen, she defended weakly, "I just thought it would be nice, to learn some of their names."

He stared at her like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. "Good night, Madam Herald."

Just like that, her smile faded away, and he realized it was because he had grown formal once more. Mentally he kicked himself, while outwardly he bowed and let himself out.

Why did she react so quickly and so strongly to every little thing he did?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, so I took a little creative license. If you've done Dorian's companion quest line, then you must have seen this coming, right? And it fits, doesn't it? And just think of the possibilities… *rubs hands together gleefully*


	7. Seeing Red

Peredura looked around with wide eyes from within the relative safety of her helmet, nearly biting through her lip to keep from screaming in terror. Everything had gone to shit! And somehow, for some obscure reason she couldn’t fathom, she had a bad feeling it was all because of her. She knew it was nothing more than leftover guilt from her old life, but feelings never responded to reason.

“Madam Herald,” a male voice called out softly, almost making her jump out of her skin.

Right, Dorian, she had almost forgotten about the dashing Tevinter mage. He stood not too far away, staff in hand, peering down a darkened hallway. She walked back towards him, her bow gripped tightly in her hand, ready to use it as a cudgel if she somehow wasn’t able to draw an arrow fast enough.

They were in a dungeon somewhere, just the two of them, thrown through time and space thanks to Alexius’ magic, or so Dorian claimed. He had tried to explain it to her, how they had been transported through time, either to the future or the past, but probably to the future, and for an undetermined amount of years…

Dorian did like the sound of his own voice.

It made her head spin to think of it. It also made her heart race, realizing it was just the two of them, and she had to trust Dorian, because despite his being a Tevinter mage, he was the only other person who knew how to operate Alexius’ time amulet. If they could find it, that is.

All she knew, was that it was damned scary here and she wanted to go back to Haven!

Dorian didn’t turn at her approach, his hand pointing to one of the cells lining the hallway, a look of interest mixed with horror marring his pleasant features. “Over there. Look. Isn’t that the qunari fellow you brought with you?”

She stopped a few paces short of him, just outside the hallway, unable to go inside. It was too much like her master’s dungeon, where she had spent most of her time, waiting in a stupor between blood magic rituals. She was afraid, and she only had Dorian—someone she’d known for a few days and who under normal circumstances she should consider an enemy—for companionship.

She shook her head and dispelled her rambling thoughts, gripping her bow with both hands, trying to get in control of her emotions. Then, at precisely the moment she needed them most, Cullen’s words came back to her. It had been weeks ago, after the incident at the lake, when they sat before a fire talking about fears and bravery. He had tried to explain something, and she had gotten the impression she hadn’t quite understood. He had said bravery was facing what you fear, like a cave full of spiders, and doing what had to be done despite feeling afraid. She had answered, she supposed she could walk through a cave of spiders to reach a rift, as long as she had someone with her. She didn’t now, not someone she trusted, like Cassandra or Solas or Bull. All she had was Dorian.

She stared hard at his profile, thinking if he had wanted to kill her, he could have done so a half-dozen times already. But he was helping her, promising to fix matters, to help her and the Inquisition, so she decided to trust him. She would face her fears with Dorian at her side.

Besides, if it was The Iron Bull in that cell…

Something rustled, sounding like chains rattling, and she thought she saw the tip of a horn inside the cell. Then a tune started, some sort of drinking song, or so she assumed, though why anyone would line bottles on top of a wall was beyond her. She forced one foot forward, then the other, then the first again until she stood beside Dorian. Looking inside the cell, peering through the bars, all she saw was shadow.

“The Iron Bull?” she called softly. “Is that you?”

“Huh?” the shadow inside the cell ceased its singing and rattled its chains again, sounding bemused and fuddled. “That you, Boss? Nah, can’t be. You’re dead.”

That was Bull’s voice, all right. “I…” her voice cracked as relief flooded her, and she gave a small cough to clear it. “I’m alive, The Iron Bull. I’m here and alive and I’m going to get you out, just, um, stay put.”

She heard his soft chuckle; whatever had happened to him, to this world, at least that hadn’t changed. “Easier done than said, Boss. Hey, is it really you? I mean, you’re not a trick or a demon or anything, are you?”

She knelt down in front of the cell, trying to remember what Varric and Sera taught her about lock-picking. “It’s really me,” she assured him, carefully placing the pick into the lock and manipulating the tension wrench. “Remember that conversation we had in my bed, about why you call me Boss?” she felt the first pin lift into place and adjusted the wrench. “I was the one who took time to talk with Krem, after he’d stood outside for hours in the snow. I was the one who came to the Storm Coast and hired you and your Chargers. Therefore, ha!” she interrupted herself, feeling proud and accomplished that she had actually succeeded in picking the lock.

“You’re the boss, Boss,” Bull finished. “Okay, you’re really you, and the cell’s really unlocked. Good job. Now do you think you can get these chains off of me?”

“Don’t forget about the rest of us,” Varric’s voice called from the cell next door. “If you’re hosting a jailbreak party, I want in on it.”

“I’ll handle this,” Dorian offered, “You go on to the next cell.”

Peredura nodded, as Bull wasn’t so much locked up as tangled and twisted in the chains. He must have fought long and hard to escape, only to entangle himself further. “What happened?” she asked, kneeling outside Varric’s cell to work on his lock. Thankfully, it was as simple as the first, and she only broke one pick trying to open it.

“I’d like to ask you the same thing,” Varric answered. “All I remember is, Alexius was posturing and gesturing with some amulet, your Tevinter friend there cast a spell, and everything went to shit.”

Briefly Peredura remembered having the same thought, only a moment ago.

“We all thought you perished in the explosion. And with you dead, the Inquisition fell. Rifts started appearing all over the place. Some mental case calling himself ‘The Elder One’ took charge of everything, not hard to do considering he had a demon army at his back.”

“Kaffas,” she whispered softly, but it was at Varric’s description of what had happened, not at the lock. She got it opened and pulled on the bars, freeing Varric. He didn’t look at her, but stared at her hands and the lock-picking tools she held.

“Give them here, Snowdrop,” he said softly, holding his hands out for her picks. “I’ll free the rest of us. Even as rusty as I am after being caged up for so long, I’ve got to be quicker at this than you.”

“Thanks,” she answered, but it was without rancor. She turned back to see Bull stagger out of his cell, one hand on Dorian’s shoulder. He slumped against the wall, deeming it sturdier than the mage. “Who all is in here?”

“Just about everyone,” Bull answered. “They caught us right away, those of us who came with you to Redcliffe Castle. The others they tracked down, one by one, fairly quickly. And a few of them, well, Sera didn’t make it.”

“…Sera’s… dead…?”

“It was quick,” Bull tried to reassure her. “The guards, um, when they brought her in, well,” he sighed, really not wanting to come right out and say it. “She was a lovely slip of a girl. They were, uh, getting a little rough with her, a little too rough, if you catch my meaning. She fought them, was doing a pretty good job of it, then it just happened. One of the guards, he grabbed her and they wrestled and, the next thing we knew, her neck had been snapped.”

Peredura stuffed her fist into her mouth, feeling her lip just wasn’t doing the job any longer.

“The Iron Lady, too, didn’t last long,” Varric added, using his nickname for Vivienne. “Took out a cell full of guards the first time they locked her up. Made one helluva fireball. But she took herself out with it, and Cassandra, who was in the cell across from her. There you go, Chuckles. Nice and free.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Solas said, far too calmly in Peredura’s opinion. He looked to Peredura, and she could see a strange aura about him, red and sizzling like a lightening spell. She glanced back at Bull, and saw the same strange red glow about his eye. “What happened to you?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean this? Must be the lyrium,” Bull waved his hand in front of his face, as if he was trying to dispel the strange light. “The guards have been force feeding some of us red lyrium ever since they imprisoned us. Most of us aren't so bad off yet; I can still function, if you need me for a fight, Boss. And we are gonna fight, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course we are,” she answered, more to reassure him than out of any desire to see blood. “The Iron Bull, who else did they feed lyrium to?”

“Oh, mostly just those of us in the Inquisition, the higher ranked ones, like me and Varric and Solas. He had it the worst,” Bull nodded his chin towards the cell across from his. “Managed to evade capture for, well, I don’t know how long. Months maybe? They caught him, eventually, and brought him down here, fed him the shit same as the rest of us, but, uh…”

She couldn’t turn around. She couldn’t look into that cell. She knew—kaffas—she simply knew who would be in there…

The same man who had taught her how to be brave. So for his sake, she had to be brave.

She turned. At first, she didn’t see anyone. The door was ajar, as if the guards didn’t bother to lock it because the cell was empty. That wasn’t exactly true; the cell wasn’t empty, but full of the red crystal-like growths she and Dorian had been finding all over the dungeon. Raw red lyrium. Some grew up from the floor or down from the ceiling, but most were reaching outwards from the back wall. Looking closer, peering around all the growths, she discerned there was someone inside the cell, someone behind all the crystals, someone who had a wrist still chained to the back wall, someone whose bare shoulder was marred with an old wound, someone with frizzy blond hair.

“…Cullen…”

There seemed to be movement from within the cell and reflecting through the crystals, a subtle shift of shadow and light, a memory of a motion, but when she blinked she saw there had been no discernible change.

“I don’t understand. Why…? How…?”

“He went through the cycle fast,” Bull supplied, having had the clearest view into Cullen’s cell. “I mean, really fast. I guess, having taken lyrium as a templar, his body was more receptive to it. Didn’t take long at all for the changes to start.” He moved away from the wall, regaining his strength, and stared sadly into the cell. “It was bad enough for me, being fed red lyrium every day, seeing what I would eventually become. But I can’t image what he went through. Must’ve been ten times worse.” He gave a disheartening sigh. “Ah, at least he’s at peace. I haven’t seen any sign of life in there for a long time now. The guards don’t even bother him anymore.”

“Nooooo….” she groaned, her heart echoing the wail. Unable to accept Bull’s statement, she slipped into the cell and dodged around the lyrium until she reached his side.

“Hey, Boss, what are you…?” Bull tried to follow, but the crowding of the crystals were too tight, he knew he’d never get his horns through. He could only stand and stare, peeking through the lyrium, watching her from a distance.

Peredura had dropped her bow outside the bars, not wanting it to hinder her progress. It was tricky enough, slipping her thin frame through the crystals, wary of their heat and their poison and their little tendrils of electrified energy orbiting their heights. When she finally reached the back wall, she stopped with a startled gasp. Cullen was indeed in the cell, but…

“Kaffas,” she whispered again, horror gripping her heart.

Almost half his body was… gone. Simply gone. His left arm and left leg, and a good portion of his torso starting with both hips and traveling upwards at a diagonal to engulf his left shoulder, even a large chunk of his head was… replaced?… with crystals shooting out in all directions. The red lyrium glowed menacing and hot, pulsing with life, whether Cullen’s or its own. And he was still alive. In his chest she could see the lyrium had penetrated only as far as his ribs, his beating heart showing through in fractured light. Across his skin spread tentacles of red, reaching hungrily in ever thinning fingers, blurring the edges between lyrium and flesh. It created a surreal image, making it hard to tell if the lyrium was growing out of his body, or if his body was growing out of the lyrium.

“Cullen?” Her voice was no stronger than a whisper, a gentle breath of wind in an ungentle world.

His head, what was left of it, was hanging from his shoulders, his face turned down and away, presenting the lyrium side towards her. She reached around to touch his cheek, the cheek that was still there anyway. It was covered with several months growth of beard, but the skin beneath the coarse hairs was warm with life.

There was another stir of wind, this time falling across her exposed wrist—his breath. She tilted her head, intending to get a better view of his face, and saw his lips were moving. She moved in even closer, turning her ear so she could hear his faint mumblings. “For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“What was that?” she called to him, willing him to hear her, praying he could answer.

He did. His head moved, lifting up a little, the weight of the lyrium heavy on his neck, but he did speak louder, and more clearly, “A prayer. For the lost. For the Inquisition. For me.”

“Cullen, it’s me,” she pleaded with him to see her, to understand her, fearing the despair in the words he spoke, “It’s Peredura. Remember? The Herald?”

“Peredura,” he sighed, his strength fading and his head falling back down, pressing the increased weight against her hand. “We lost her first.”

“I’ve come back,” she gripped his cheek a little tighter and tried to lift his face. “I’m here, now, and I’m going to fix this.”

“You can’t,” he moaned, “Not for me, anyway.” She watched across the bridge of his nose as the lashes of his lone eye blinked. “Wait… Peredura? Is it really you? I… I can’t see you…”

“It’s me,” she affirmed, one hand tearing off her helmet, revealing her face for any who would see. She twisted around until she entered his limited vision, and got a clear look at his full face. Barely she kept herself from gasping at the sight of his beautiful hazel eye, clouded over with the cursed red glow. The other eye was completely gone, stolen by the invasive growth, from his forehead across his check to the corner of his mouth, sweeping back to where his ear had been. She tried not to stare at the nightmarish vision of his skull and brain half-exposed, half-sealed within crystal.

“Peredura…” he blinked, barely able to make her out. “My Pere. How I’ve longed for this. I prayed… Maker have mercy on my soul, forgive my selfishness… but I asked only to hear your voice once more, before He took me.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to answer him, to give him comfort, if comfort was what he sought. His words confused her, as if there was a whole part of their relationship she had somehow missed, helping to silence her voice.

“I tried, Peredura,” he sighed, hanging his head once more. “I tried, for months, to continue the Inquisition without you, but the demons…” his voice broke under the force of his emotions. “Maker’s breath, but I… I couldn’t… they were too strong… and I didn’t have enough templars… and we were out of lyrium… the right kind…”

“Sh,” she tried to silence him, frightened by his words, by his passion. She brushed overgrown, frizzy blond hair back from what was left of his face and caressed his bearded cheek. “Sh, it’s over now. I’m here. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

“Peredura,” he sighed again, her name a prayer on his lips. She was beginning to get the feeling that he didn’t believe she was truly there. “I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry. I wish… I wish I could have another chance.”

“To defeat the demon army,” she guessed.

“No,” he squeezed his eye shut, his face filling with pain. “I mean, not only that. But before. Before you came here, to Redcliffe Castle, before the end. I think of all those times we talked, and I never told you…” He paused to open his eye, licking his lips, trying to keep his voice clear. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, about you, about what I felt. I don’t know what I would have told you, what I should have told you, but I never even tried…!”

She wanted to comfort him, thinking his strong emotions were causing him physical pain. “Cullen, I’m here; you can tell me now, can’t you?”

“Now? When it’s too late?” A tear escaped his eye, glistening red. She didn’t look to see if that was because it was full of red lyrium, or because it was reflecting the reddish light all around them. She brushed it away and held his gaze; it seemed to have a calming effect on him. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer, stronger. “Oh, Peredura, I should have done something. I should have spoken with you more, tested these timid feelings I had for you. But I… I couldn’t… not after… what had happened to me… I never wanted…”

Again, she was shocked into silence, unable to believe he was saying what he was, er, wasn’t saying, or something like that.

When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, softer, closer to death. “I… I think… Peredura… my Pere, my precious Pere, I… I think I might’ve loved you, or could have loved you, if given the chance. I didn’t understand the feelings I had for you back then. I never even tried to talk with you about how I felt, or ask how you felt. I should have; I see that now, and I’m so very sorry. We’ll never know if there could have been anything between us, not until I join you at the Maker’s side.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she pleaded, the fear growing inside her like the red lyrium growing inside his cell, invasive and cruel and relentless.

“It’s too late. For us. For me. Peredura, please…” his voice faded away into a soft moan of pain. He panted, struggling to take in a deep breath with only half a chest. “Maker! It hurts too much. It needs to end. Let it end. Help me, Peredura. Spare me this torment!”

She pulled away, understanding dawning in her mind. He wanted to die. He needed to die. But the lyrium wouldn’t let him, not until it finished consuming him, at any rate; and Maker only knows how long that would take. Reactively her hand found the hilt of her dagger, secure at her waist, and drew it slowly from its sheath.

He held her gaze, words now failing him, his lone eye hard and cold, his right hand twitching where it remained chained against the wall, as if he would grasp the knife himself and plunge it into his heart.

But his heart, like so much of his body, was protected by the lyrium that was killing him. Her hand shaking, she brought the blade up to the part of his neck that was still flesh, her other hand reaching out to hold his, giving him some small comfort. “Cullen, I…” her words stopped as quickly as they had started. He gave her a sympathetic smile, without rancor or malice for what she was about to do. and nodded once.

She leaned forward and, before her nerve broke, kissed him.

The next moment, wet burst over the front of her armor, wet that swelled with heat stolen from a body. She didn’t move away, she didn’t even flinch, but remained locked within the limited embrace, until his final breath was swallowed by her sobs.

Cullen was dead. By her hand.

“Snowdrop?” Varric’s voice called to her.

She opened her eyes, not having realized that she had closed them, to find herself kneeling at Cullen’s feet. Her dagger was still in her hand, stained red like the lyrium. She stared at it, wanting to blame it for everything that had gone wrong in this messed-up future, because there was nothing else to blame. Besides, the dagger had taken Cullen’s life.

—she had taken Cullen’s life.

“Hey, ah, Boss? You okay in there?”

No, she wanted to answer Bull’s question, but her voice was taken, spilled out of her like Cullen’s blood had spilled out of him. She took a staggering breath, feeling her body rock with the effort to perform the normally simple, life-sustaining act.

And lifted her eyes up to what was left of Cullen’s chest.

A third voice sounded, masculine and suave, beginning with a gentle clearing of his throat. “Excuse me, but we really shouldn’t stay here too long. Must get back to the past and all that.”

Dorian, she thought to herself. A Tevinter. A mage. How much of her life had been fucked over by mages? Vivianus Vicici and his delusion that her blood held power, Gereon Alexius and his time-bending amulet, Dorian Pavus and… and… Well, given time, she figured he’d probably find a way to mess up something in her life, especially if he remembered her.

The fingers of her other hand found her helmet, fumbled for a moment, and finally managed to pick it up.

“Would you care for a hand?” It was Dorian again, right beside her. She didn’t start at his voice, didn’t answer him, but she also didn’t resist when he took hold of her arm, mindful of the helmet, and lifted her to her feet. He held on to her for a moment, watching her critically as she quietly wiped her dagger on her leggings, looked to find it still covered in blood, and resigned herself to sheathing it uncleaned.

Still she didn’t speak, but started for the entrance of the cell, weaving her way between the eerily glowing stalactites and stalagmites. Back in the hallway, she had room to grip her helmet in both hands and replace it onto her head.

“Peredura,” Solas stepped forward, looking less strange now with his red glow, the extent of Cullen’s transformation putting the others’ changes into perspective. “Listen to me. If you can, you must go back, back to the very moment you left us. It’s the only way you can save us now, save Thedas,” his voice grew even quieter as he added, “Save Cullen.”

Her eyes closed, the pain swelling upwards like a tidal wave. Cullen might have loved her, and she had been forced to kill him. She pushed the pain back, set it aside for a later time, and opened her eyes to focus on what Solas was telling her.

“…stop the Empress from being assassinated, and all this may yet be avoided. This world is an abomination, Peredura. You must keep it from coming into being. Do you understand?”

She nodded silently.

“WE will,” Dorian stressed, coming up to her side yet again. He seemed to like it there, just a bit too much.

Feeling suffocated, she moved away from the others, not wanting to hear them talking to her, not wanting to see how they had been changed, not wanting to accept this future as being written in stone. It had be to changed; there had to be a way to change it. And she would find that way, for the sake of Cullen’s blood on her knife. Nothing else mattered!

When she finally did speak, her voice was harsh and full of unbridled resolution.

“Where can I find Alexius?”

* * *

Peredura stood near the edge of camp, deep in thought. Behind her sat her friends, her cohorts, Solas and Bull and Varric, laughing and celebrating around a campfire. Dorian sat with them, retelling yet again the tale of how he and Peredura had traveled to the future, discovered it in shambles, and came back in time to kick Alexius’ ass. It sounded easy the way he told it, but he left out a few crucial parts.

Her hand settled itself on the tainted dagger at her side, knowing she would never be able to wipe those memories from her mind.

After returning to the present and defeating Alexius, Peredura had offered the mages an alliance with the Inquisition. That pissed off a few of her friends, but Peredura simply could not force anyone into anything even remotely feeling like slavery. The mages could be their allies, willingly helping them close the Breach, or they could go on their way. Grand Enchanter Fiona had been smart enough to see there was no where the mages could go, if they didn’t help Peredura and the Inquisition. So perhaps there was some coercion involved, and the thought left Peredura feeling soiled and moody.

But afterwards—she promised herself—after the mages and their magic helped her to close the Breach, she promised herself she would keep her word: the mages would be free to go.

Cassandra, Vivienne, and Blackwall had elected to escort the mages—and their prisoner, Alexius—to Haven, going at a slower pace than Peredura and her group. It bothered her, splitting up as they had; even though it was nothing compared to being separated from her friends by time. It left her feeling uneasy, out of touch, in need of something that would reunite that bond between her and her friends, the bond she feared had been severed by her experience in the future.

“Hey, Boss!” boomed Bull’s voice. “Come share a drink or two with us. You’ll get cold standing there all by yourself.”

“Leave her be, ox-man,” Dorian’s normally charming voice quickly turned acidic. “You don’t know what she went through…”

“What?” Varric, noticing Bull’s hackles rise at the racial slur, stepped in before a fight could get started. “I thought you told us everything. What juicy details did you leave out?”

“Varric, perhaps this isn’t the time…” Solas tried to distract the dwarf from prying into any secrets. He shot a glance over to Peredura’s back, the others following his gesture. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t made any indication that she had heard Bull’s invitation, or the heated banter that followed.

“Yeah, well, I guess you’re right,” Varric backed down. “You know what? It’s getting late. Why don’t we all turn in? That way, we’ll be ready for an early start tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Solas agreed, making his voice sound quite reasonable. “I’ll take the first watch, shall I?”

Bull looked like he wanted to argue, but backed down when Varric dug his elbow into his ribs. It certainly didn’t hurt the massive qunari, but he did notice it. “Yeah, all right, I guess I am pretty tired.” He grunted while he gained his feet, before a sudden inspiration hit him. He walked over to Dorian and held out his hand, a warm smile playing across his lips. The Tevinter looked at it suspiciously, but accepted Bull’s offer to help him to his feet. He immediately regretted it, wincing as his hand was nearly crushed. “Call me ox-man again,” Bull growled softly, “And it’ll be the last word you ever utter.”

It took all of Dorian’s willpower to remain calm; he’d be damned before he showed weakness in front of a qunari. “Really, The Iron Bull, you started it by calling me a Vint, remember?”

Bull thought about it for a moment before he grudgingly laughed. “You got me there, Vint. Good night.”

“Pleasant dreams, ox-man.”

Solas had ignored the exchange, his focus on Peredura. He didn’t like the melancholy that was plaguing her; the young woman had enough on her plate already. He set a hand on her shoulder, trying to gently bring her out of her dark thoughts. “Peredura, it’s time for bed. You should get some rest.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned around, looking at him, looking at Bull and Dorian seemingly shaking hands, looking at Varric secreting the wineskin under his vest. “I want us to do something,” she announced suddenly.

“Do what?” Solas asked, even as the others paused to listen.

“Something… celebratory… rewarding… important…” she looked away, feeling her eyes tear up. “Something for all of us. Something to be remembered by.”

“Ah, Snowdrop, we are on our way back to Haven, so you can close the Breach. That is kinda momentous.” Varric gently reminded her. He was also growing more worried about her state of mind, which was one reason he had pressed Dorian for more details. He knew something was bugging the girl, something devastating, judging by the sheer amount of blood that had suddenly appeared on her armor right after she and Dorian returned from the future. The last thing they needed was for the Herald of Andraste, the only person who could close the Breach, to lose her marbles. Someone needed to find out what was wrong, what had happened in the dark future that had upset her so deeply and left such a long-lasting mark, and not just on her clothing.

Peredura ignored him, turning back to Solas. “You said there was a dragon nearby…”

Her companions’ reactions were vast. Dorian groaned some lament about ruining his best robes. Varric said it sounded like it would be quite a party, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Solas sputtered a moment, wondering how he could find a way to dissuade her. But it was Bull’s, “Oh, Boss, you say the sweetest things!” that sealed the deal.

Resigned, Solas began working out the best way to keep Peredura back and out of the fight, and then the best way to inform Commander Cullen what they had done…

* * *

Peredura felt alive.

More than that, she felt… Well, there wasn’t a word for it, not even in the vocabulary left behind in her mind by the Tranquil. Not that she used that resource any longer; having spoken the language in Ferelden for so long, she was remembering the words on her own. Sure, the occasional Tevinter word would slip out now and again, usually when she was surprised or scared, but for the most part, she was beginning to think and speak like a Ferelden.

Except for maybe the urge to hunt a dragon. That part, she supposed she would have to blame on Bull.

But none of that mattered now. They were walking into Haven, their spirits high, with a trophy to commemorate the occasion. There were cheers and excitement rising from the crowd beginning to gather at their approach. And most importantly, an epic tale—that didn’t involve time travel to a grisly and macabre future—for Varric to embellish. Her blood was singing with victory, the endorphins and adrenaline still saturating her veins. This must be what Bull meant, she mused, that evening he lamented that things were getting stale and boring and he felt the need for something challenging, something to heat his blood and wake him up. She certainly felt awake. Awake and alive and free and… capable!

There was only one thing, or one person rather, who could make her feel even better.

“Solas! Varric!”

And there in the middle of the road he stood. Cullen. Also alive and capable and free of red lyrium. She gave a small cry of joy, her smile all but bursting apart her helmet, and ran towards him. She intended to hug him, to laugh and sing and rejoice in life, but his scowl deepened the closer she approached. She skidded to a halt not half a pace from him, her brown eyes wide, her smile sliding into open-mouthed disbelief. He didn’t look at her, didn’t pay her any heed at first, his eyes scanning her companions and pinning each of them in turn.

“Where have you been? Seeker Pentaghast arrived yesterday with the mages, stating that you all had left ahead of her. You were entrusted with the safety of the Herald, yet you show up days overdue. Why didn’t you arrive sooner? Madam Herald,” he acknowledged her briefly before turning back to the others. “Well, I’m waiting for an explanation.”

“Cullen?” she said softly, and the informal address startled him. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of shock and fear.

“Er, ah, Madam Herald,” he stressed her title, giving an inclination of his head.

This was wrong, this was so very wrong, not at all like she thought it would happen. Wasn’t he supposed to be in love with her? Or think he might be? Or something like that?

“Maker’s breath! What happened to you?”

“What?” She was growing even more confused, as he got over his awkwardness and moved on to alarmed concern.

Focusing on his face, she saw he’d finally been paying attention to her, his eyes sweeping up and down her entire form. “Are you hurt? Do you need a healing potion? Your armor, it’s covered in blood!”

Right. Blood. His blood. Blood she had spilled after he had pleaded with her to kill him. She nervously eyed the crowd, feeling their stares upon her like sharpened knives. “Er, perhaps we could speak somewhere private?”

He got over his shock quickly, and resumed his hard stare, this time aiming it at her. He took a long moment, breathing in and out of his nose, before he answered, “Perhaps we should. Come along.” He turned on a copper and stalked through the crowd, which parted for him like tree branches before a gale. She followed, obeying his command without question, feeling like she was being led to her slaughter.

She wasn’t far off. Cullen took her to the other side of the army’s encampment, not an ideal location for privacy, but far enough away from those gathering around Varric for them both to feel comfortable. The dwarf was already in full swing, starting his tale with what happened at Redcliffe Castle, elaborating on the spot, effectively taking all eyes off of Peredura and Cullen.

“Well?” he prompted once it seemed they were alone enough.

What could she say, she wondered. Somehow, standing there in the full light of day, with Cullen so alive and whole and strong and untainted, she couldn’t tell him what she had seen. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the abominable future, the way red lyrium had taken over his body yet wouldn’t kill him, how he had pleaded with her to spare him a long and agonizing death.

“At least tell me that isn’t your blood.”

“What?” she blinked, seeing his finger pointing accusingly at her chest. She dropped her face to look at the gore staining her armor. “Oh. No, no it isn’t.”

“Whose blood is it?”

Her expression turned stricken, thankfully hidden from him thanks to her helmet and the angle of her stare. No, Maker forgive her, but no, she had to lie, she couldn’t tell him the truth. It would cost him too much, to hear it so coldly and plainly, how he had suffered so terribly and for so long that he begged for death. Such a concept, such a prediction, could break even the strongest of men—even Cullen. “It… it was during a fight, I had to use my knife, up close, and it got messy.”

“While fighting Alexius?” he asked, his voice sounding understanding and almost sympathetic. She looked up, confused yet again by his sudden change, and he elaborated, “Cassandra told me what happened, as far as she knew, about Alexius and his time amulet, how you and Magister… er… Altus Pavus claimed to have been to the future.”

“We were,” she nodded, wanting to dispel his doubt. Immediately she regretted it, remembering she didn’t want to have to elaborate on what happened in the future that they had to avoid…

Her head was beginning to hurt. Maker, but if she never time traveled again, it would be too soon.

“It’s complicated,” she hedged, looking off to the side, unable to hold his gaze. “I’ll, um, I’ll explain it all, when we’re together, with Cassandra and Leliana and Josephine. I’d rather not go over it again and again, if you don’t mind.”

“I look forward to it.” He didn’t sound enthused about the upcoming meeting, merely repeating a platitude that civilized society demanded. In the silence that followed, Varric’s voice floated across the trodden snow towards them. “Wait…” Cullen said, tilting his head to better hear Varric. She realized the dwarf was coming to the part where she had suggested they find a dragon, and opened her mouth to say something, anything, to distract Cullen or drown out Varric. Cullen lifted his gloved hand, cutting her off before she could exhale, his focus on the tale.

She could only stand there and watch, watch his face fill with horror and surprise, watch his eyes turn cold and hard, watch his stance grow taller and straighter.

“You…” he quickly broke off, making a disgusting noise almost on par with Cassandra. He had to take several steps away lest he impulsively put his hands around her throat. When he felt in control of himself once more, he returned to face her down. “You were late coming back to Haven, because you wanted to hunt down a dragon?!”

“It wasn’t quite like that…”

“Oh, believe me, I know Varric can tell a tall tale when he puts his mind to it. But I do see the horn Bull has been dragging behind you all,” he pointed that judgmental finger over her shoulder to where she presumed Bull was standing. “That had to have come from a dragon.”

“It did,” she answered meekly, staring at her toes.

“Did a dragon attack you on your way back here?”

“No.”

“So you did go looking for it.”

“I… well… sort of… I suppose… it wasn’t like that… exactly…” she stuttered.

Cullen closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if someone had recently struck him solidly in the face. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded heavy and worn with the weight of years, “Yes or no, was it your idea to go seek out a dragon to fight?”

“Yes.”

The word fell from her lips, like the first gentle snowflake of an oncoming blizzard.

“Maker…! Do you know…” he stopped to pant, so angry he was unable to form the sentence in one breath, “Did you stop to think… what would happen… if you were killed?” His hands at last found her body, gripping her shoulders and giving her a sharp shake.

Her head wobbled back and forth, not enough to do damage, but enough to hurt and snap her out of her submissiveness. “I face death every day,” she shrugged off his grip, feeling hurt and angry and no longer meek. “Besides the mark almost costing my life, there are the rifts spewing out demons, wild animals in the countryside, rogue mages and templars, Venatori, an assassin…”

“Which is why it was so STUPID of you to go running off like that, courting danger!” he overrode her objections. He saw he’d struck a blow, somewhere among his words, her eyes growing just a little wet. “Your life is dangerous enough; don’t take any more risks than you have to.”

She didn’t back down, she didn’t cower. Though her eyes remained moist, she didn’t even shed a tear. But damn it she was on the defensive, and though she didn’t lose ground, she couldn’t figure out how to regain what she had lost.

“From now on, you will not take any unnecessary risks,” he commanded, waggling his finger in front of her nose, “And I’ll lay it out in clear and simple terms so there would be no misunderstanding. No dragons. No bears. No jumping off of cliffs. No thin ice or spider filled caves. Your life will be boring and quiet and safe, until AFTER the Breach is closed. Then you can go break your neck for all I care. Is that understood?”

Peredura was livid. His lack of faith in her abilities stung; it cut her to the quick and left her bleeding as surely as her master’s blood magic. Very well, if he wanted her obedience, then he’d have it! “Is that an order, Commander?”

He didn’t hear the quiet and deadly tone in her voice. His only thought was that, if treating it as an order would mean she would stay safe, then he’d give it as an order. “It is.”

She slapped her heels together and slammed her fist against her chest, a poor and unpracticed salute. “Yes, Ser!” Smartly she turned on her heel and stormed off, her hands making fists as her arms hung stiffly at her sides. She hardly noticed the honor guard hurrying to catch up with her, now that she was back in Haven, her only thought was to get away from the Commander before she did or said something she would regret.

She passed Dorian without seeing him. It didn’t surprise him, having gotten a good look at her eyes overflowing with ire as she stormed down the path. Her whole person was positively fuming, and he had to admit it leant an intriguing and intimidating quality to a girl who was otherwise, in a word, unassuming.

But attraction wasn’t the reason why he started after her. He knew how important she was to the Inquisition, and since he seemed to be the only person who noticed how upset she was, he felt it was up to him to make sure nothing devastating had happened—or, er, happened again, that is. He didn’t make it two paces, however, before a gruff and leering voice stopped him. “Hey, Vint!”

He gave a long suffering sigh, but turned and faced his tormentor, “Yes, you mindless walking sack of muscle?”

Bull smiled at him, laughing good-naturedly at the insult, as he approached. They were standing in the middle of the lane, a little ways from the tents where the Chargers were stationed. It was private enough, but he dropped his voice just in case. “Hey, I, ah, just wanted to say,” he paused to clear his throat, “Thanks.”

Dorian didn’t answer, but stared at him with his light blue eyes.

Bull cleared his throat again, glancing over his shoulder to where Krem, damn him, was watching them. “Back when we were fighting the dragon, you cast that spell, around each of us. It, ah, was really helpful, you know, during the fight.”

Dorian indulged in the smirk, basking in the gratitude of a qunari. “Oh, you mean the spell that put a magical barrier around you? Yes, that particular spell does come in handy on occasion. It can keep you from getting hurt, taking the damage that would otherwise be inflicted upon your person.”

“Yeah, that it did. Saved my skin.”

The altus smiled and gestured grandly. “Well, I had to do something. The rest of us stayed back out of range, but you were foolish enough to charge the beast head on. I had to offer you some sort of protection, for Peredura’s sake, you understand. She is rather fond of you.”

There was a bit of innuendo in his voice, and Bull played with it. “Jealous?”

“Of you or her?” Dorian laughed. “Try again, my barbaric friend; I don’t care whom you sleep with.”

“Really? Huh…” he sighed, his eyes calculating. Dorian got the distinct impression Bull was reading far too much for his own good.

“I, ah, should get going. Until later, ox-man.”

He tried hard to ignore the soft chuckle floating through the wintery air behind his back.

Dorian almost raced down the snow-covered dirt road, not sure if he was trying harder to get away from Bull or catch up with Peredura. Either way, it was enough for his steps to hasten down that lane, dodging puddles of slippery ice and skipping over small banks of snow. He wasn’t far behind her, however, coming across Peredura, and her honor guard, standing on a bridge over one side of the lake. The two former templars barred his way, one holding his spear across his path while the other continued his diligent scan for danger.

“Hold!”

“Oh, back off, you sorry excuse for a lapdog.” Dorian might have been a little less than charming at that moment, but he was still slightly flustered by Bull. The guard made a convenient target. “I’m Dorian Pavus, a close friend of Madam Herald’s.”

“We know who you are, Ser,” the guard managed to put an insulting slur into the last word. “You’re not to approach her ladyship without permission.”

“Devensport,” Peredura’s voice called from where she was leaning on the railing of the bridge, “He’s a friend. Let him pass.”

“Begging your pardon, Madam Herald,” he spoke to her without taking his eyes off of Dorian, “But we’ve got orders, who is trusted and who isn’t. And, according to the Commander, he isn’t, or hasn’t been, yet, or something.”

“I trust him,” she emphasized, “Don’t force me to make this an order.”

“Again, your Worshipfulness, sorry, but we takes our orders from the Commander.”

She stared at him, some of her earlier ire still floating about her, and the guard swallowed. “We’ll let Magister Pavus approach, Madam Herald, but we won’t trust him.”

“Altus,” she corrected.

“Your Worship?”

“Never mind.” She let out an exasperated breath, but dropped the argument. Apparently she had done a fair imitation of Cullen’s glare, if she got Devensport to compromise. She shook her head and returned to staring out over the frozen lake as Dorian slipped past them.

“Thank you, my good man. Ah, Peredura, how lovely you look in the evening light.”

“What do you want, Dorian?”

He really didn’t like how tired she sounded. Yes, they had been through a lot, but they were safe now; she should be feeling better. “Just some idle conversation,” he said, a little too loudly, making her lift her head and wonder what was going on. He flicked his eyes off to the side, and she glanced over his shoulder at her guards, who were listening to every word spoken, even though they remained on constant alert for danger. Dorian gave her a slight nod, indicating that he knew the guards were listening, and dropped his voice, “I, ah, thought you might like to talk, now that we’ve put some distance between us and that incident.”

She turned away again, staring at her hands hanging off the railing, her fingers interlaced. She could feel the cold snow from the top of the railing seeping through her coat to her skin, but she didn’t move to wipe it off. “I’d rather not…”

“No? Pity, considering I’m the only one you can talk with about what happened.”

Could she, she wondered. She supposed so, since he was the only one who had gone with her into the future. And she did trust him now; after he’d saved her life, and she saved his, several times over. Yet… “Nothing happened.”

Dorian leaned in a little closer, saw her guard shift uneasily out of the corner of his eye, and thought better of it. He settled for keeping his voice low and quiet so it wouldn’t travel quite so far. “You know that’s not quite true. I was there, Peredura, right beside you when it happened. I saw and heard everything.”

“You…” she was startled enough to look back at him again.

“I have to admit, it confuses me, too.”

“I’m not confused, well, maybe, but, oh…” she turned to her favorite pastime, biting her lip.

“I understand. I had thought at first that you and, um,” he mouthed the word, ‘Bull,’ “Were an item. You did mention something about the time the two of you were talking in bed…”

“No!” she jumped, gripping his arm to stop him from talking. Realizing her forward action, and loud voice, she calmed herself and said in a much quieter tone, “I, um, that is, we, he and I, were just sitting on my bed, talking, fully clothed and everything. Nothing happened between us.”

“Ah.” She thought she heard a relieved sort of sigh in his voice. He must have thought the same thing, because the next moment he was stuttering, “Good! I mean, er, fine. Glad to hear it. He isn’t right for you, anyway.”

They both turned to stare out over the lake, fighting the heat flushing their cheeks.

“Peredura,” he was the first to recover and find his voice, “You’re upset; that much is obvious. And I would hazard to guess it has something to do with the way HE,” Dorian very thoughtfully avoided using Cullen’s name, “Acted upon our arrival, does it not?”

Her silence was affirmation enough.

“Ah, you poor girl. How long have you had a crush on him?”

“I…” she peeked at him from within her helmet, the denial ready and set behind her lips. She stopped, however, upon seeing the disbelief on his face. “I guess, I don’t know, I haven’t, I don’t think, anyway…”

“Just a moment: do you, or do you not, have feelings for him?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know it if I did. I’ve never had the chance before to develop feelings for anyone.”

“What?” It was his turn to raise his voice a little louder than necessary. Giving a cough as an excuse, he continued, “You’re a grown woman, aren’t you, not a child. There must have been someone in your past who had caught your eye or spoke some words of flattery that made your heart flutter. Or were you promised to the Chantry from infancy? Raised in complete isolation from the world?”

Her face grew pained, but behind her cheek guards, all he could see were her eyes squeezed shut. “Something like that. Let’s just say, I didn’t know very many people, not until I came here and,” she lifted the palm of her left hand, “This happened.”

He gave a sympathetic hum. “Must have been quite a learning experience, all this rift business on top of learning how to interact socially.”

She dropped her hand to dangle over the railing. “It was. It is. Dorian…” she looked up at him, hesitant, needing someone to confide in, someone who would understand what she had experienced. And as much as she would prefer to talk with Cassandra about this, the Seeker hadn’t been there in the future, hadn’t seen what had happened and what Peredura had done. Dorian had. Retreating as far as she could inside her helmet, she asked, “What did I do wrong?”

“You assumed,” he answered simply.

She stared at him blankly.

“Well, my dear girl, what did you expect? Comm…, er, the man here, in Haven, isn’t the same man we met in the future. That other man had been imprisoned for months, tortured with lyrium, immured within an unending crucible. He may very well have had feelings for you. Or, he could have just as easily made up those feelings, as a sort of retreat from his current torment, a safe haven in his mind where he could imagine a happier, better time. Either way, the man whose blood you wear is not the same man you just had words with.”

She sighed, his words making sense, more sense anyway than when he tried to explain time travel. “So, Cull… I mean, HE doesn’t have feelings for me?”

“I couldn’t say,” Dorian answered honestly. “I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing him long enough to form an opinion. But at least he is concerned for your safety; that’s something, isn’t it?” he thumbed at the guards behind them.

“Only because I’m the only one with this,” she lifted her hand again. “If there was someone else who could close rifts, or the Breach, he wouldn’t focus quite so much on me.”

They grew silent for a bit, before Peredura asked, “I don’t know, Dorian. What should I do?”

“Give it time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Time? You had to say that?”

He gave a stutter of a laugh. “Poor choice of words. But honestly, if there is something between the two of you, it might need just a little time to develop. Give it a chance. Give yourself a chance.” He could tell she didn’t believe him. He watched her turn back to the lake, dropping her face to hide within her helmet. “Peredura,” he pressed, taking hold of her shoulders and forcing her to face him. “Look at me. Look up! That’s it,” he encouraged when they finally made eye contact. Once more he was struck by her eyes, a pair of orbs of the softest brown, and somehow familiar. He brushed the feeling aside and continued, “And take this off.” Quickly, before she could figure out his intentions, he pulled the ties of her cheek guards and slipped off her helmet.

Peredura gasped, taking half a step back, her hands flying to the sides of her head. Thankfully, despite his hasty yanking, her hair had remained in place, securely in its ponytail and covering her mutilated ears. But her face, her scars, were in plain view. She brought her hands to her cheeks next, but he swiftly dropped her helmet and grabbed her wrists, preventing her from hiding her features.

“No you don’t, my dear, not until I’m finished.” She froze, like a startled halla in the wilderness, staring at him with an expression akin to nervous fear. He let go of one wrist, ignoring the way her hand hung immobile in the air between them, and pressed his hand against her scarred flesh. “I’ve seen this already, in Comm… er, in his cell, when you took off your helmet so he could recognize you. That qunari bully of yours was concerned for your safety and sent me in after you, since he couldn’t fit. So don’t worry about hiding them from me. Besides, you are a beautiful woman; it’s time you realized that. And I don’t mean just your character, though that is quite remarkable on its own merit. But your appearance is stunning as well.”

Those soft brown eyes filled with tears. “You don’t mean that…”

“Venhedis,” he sighed, “You mean to tell me no one has ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“No,” she shook her head, “Of course not.”

“What do you mean, of course not? You’re not concerned about your scars, are you?”

She nodded. “How can I be beautiful, when I’m full of…” she stopped herself before telling him about the rest of her scars.

“Take it from me, Peredura, you are beautiful. I should know,” he stated confidently, “I do happen to be an expert on beauty, being cursed as I am with an overabundance of it.”

She laughed, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was his charm, perhaps it was his overconfident manner, or perhaps she simply needed a laugh. Either way, the laughter burbled out, mingling with tears along the way.

Dorian had been afraid this might happen. He sighed and took her in his arms, giving her a shoulder to cry on, ignoring the awkwardness he felt, all for her sake.

Neither of them saw the darkly cloaked figure staring at them with hard hazel eyes. No one heard the leather of his glove creak as he watched them embrace. He thought he had overreacted, thanks to a recent decrease in his lyrium intake, and had come to make amends, only to find Peredura finding comfort in another man's arms. After a moment, Commander Cullen turned and stalked away, his apology forgotten.


	8. No More Safe Haven

Half.

He was down to half a dose.

Every morning when Cullen rose, whether he had slept or not, his first thought would be of lyrium. His hand would reach out, in the pre-dawn darkness, fingers shaking as they searched for his kit. He wouldn't be able to breathe until he found it, right where he had left it, on the table beside his cot.

Then his true torment began.

Maker's breath! what cost; staring at the closed box, shoring his will—his commitment—to the Inquisition, before he would allow himself to even open it. How his eyes would water at the sight, the light blue glow of lyrium, slipping past the glass of its vial to fill up his tent. In an almost trance-like state he would prepare his dose, carefully measuring the lyrium, taking off an eighth of the prescribed amount… a quarter… a third…

Half. Half a dose this morning. His hand shook as he brought the cup to his lips, but with so little in there, he wasn't in danger of spilling a single drop. He tried to sip slowly, to take more time, to fool his body into thinking it was getting a full dose… But there was no mistaking the decreasing amounts. Apparently, his body was smarter than him.

He'd seen others withdraw from lyrium, so he knew the signs, and he'd seen the signs in himself already. Even though he was trying to wean himself slowly, even though he hadn't stopped cold as so many others had been forced to do—it was getting harder to hide the effects. He was continually tired, unable to sleep thanks to aching muscles and profuse sweating and every so often the sensation of ants crawling over his skin. But it wasn't only the physical symptoms that were plaguing him. Old memories were coming back, fresh and strong and with such fine detail he could almost swear he was once more trapped outside the Harrowing Chamber at Kinloch, or fighting through waves of demons in the Gallows' halls at Kirkwall.

And Peredura, damn her, haunted his mind; he often found his thoughts obsessing around her continuously, even when there were other matters requiring his immediate attention. He'd find himself assessing her growing abilities with the mark, reviewing her practice with her bow, watching her like a hawk whenever she sparred with Cassandra or one of his recruits. He'd also feel the need to constantly go over contingency plans should her assassin resurface, check and double-check every new mage at Haven, a seemingly unending task thanks to the events at Redcliffe. At night he would lie awake and worry about her relationship with Dorian and what effects that could have on her. Not that he was jealous, certainly; he had no opinion whatsoever regarding with whom she spent her free time. But Dorian was a male mage from Tevinter; he could be distracting her, flattering her, taking advantage of her naivety, leaving her open and defenseless…

He realized he was doing it again. He finished and set the empty cup off to the side, resisting the urge to tip it completely upside down over his open mouth and shake every last drop from its depths. Now came the hardest part of the day: the interminable wait for that initial surge when the lyrium hit his system. He made his hands grip the edge of his camp cot, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, imagining he could feel the lyrium getting absorbed into his blood, spreading through his body via his veins, renewing his strength and abilities and awareness.

As good as it would feel, it was no longer enough. He had been keenly noticing it, the decrease in his power. He wasn't as strong as he should be. He wasn't as able! He couldn't tell as quickly, if a mage was practicing his craft and drawing from the Fade! He should be taking his full dose, not half! With so many mages in the camp, it was very likely that accidents would happen, and he would have to step in and settle disagreements, determine who was at fault, keep the peace. He may even be called upon to use his power just to keep a volatile situation from getting out of hand. Yet how could he? How could he, crippled as he was, with only half his abilities, half his reason…?

Half his dose.

Stay in control, he told himself as blunt nails tried to dig into the wooden frame of his cot, hold on just a little longer. After today it would get better. After today the Breach would be closed—Maker willing—and the mages could go on their way. Not ideal, he still wanted to restore some sort of restrictions upon the mages, some system of checks and balances to keep things from getting out of hand. Like they had at Kinloch. Like they had at Kirkwall.

A chilling thought crept into his head, causing him to blink his eyes open in surprise and apprehension; was he cursed? Two major circles had fallen in recent memory, and he was involved in both incidences. His hand lifted from the cot to rub at his stubbled chin, ignoring the fact that he needed a shave. There were so many mages here, in Haven, and he was here…

He pushed himself up from his bed, as if he could physically move away from the fearful thoughts that poisoned his mind, the feeling of dread that gripped his heart, the closeness of the air inside his tent that threatened to strangle him. He rushed over to the opening of his tent, wearing nothing more than the loose leggings he had slept in, desperately needing air. He pushed the flap aside and stood there, in the triangular opening, to stare at the mountains, a darker shade of black against a starry sky. A breeze, sharp with winter's chill, stroked his cheeks and rifled his unkempt hair. He closed his eyes and inhaled, deep, slow, until the pitiful amount of lyrium finally took effect, until the fears calmed and the nightmarish ideas crept back into the shadows, until the only sensation across his skin was the cleansing breeze pushing at the hairs on his chest and arms.

More than anything, it was the fresh, cold, moving air that cleared his mind, allowing him to think objectively once more. It was only a part of the withdrawal process, he told himself. This paranoia. This obsessing. This anxiety. All those dark thoughts were unfounded. Slowly he opened his eyes, forcing himself to feel calm. He wasn't cursed. The mages were not going to revolt right there in the middle of Haven. The Herald was going to use their help to close the Breach. Today. And he and his templars—few as they were—would be on hand just in case.

Just because he knew he suffered paranoia, didn't mean that there weren't things to be concerned about. If he'd learned anything after all the tragedies he'd survived, it was to be prepared for anything. Have control of the situation from the start, have contingency plans in place for every foreseeable problem, and he could stay in control no matter what happened.

That's what he kept telling himself.

He closed the tent flap with a flick of his wrist and started to get ready for the day. This time when his fingers scrubbed his face, he noticed the stubble. Despite, or because of, the importance of the day, he would not be shaving. There was too much work to do; he wouldn't have the time.

* * *

 

"Again!"

Krem lifted his sword and shouted a challenge, running at Bull full speed. The qunari swung his own sword in a perfect arc, catching Krem's sword, the two pieces of steel ringing and sparking on contact. A trio of mages passed by, heading towards the group that was beginning to gather near the stables. Krem snapped his eyes to the side, watching them, a look of longing flickering over his face. Bull took advantage of Krem's inattention and forced his sword to move, staying behind it, making it spin and twirl and finally bend his arm too far. With a cry Krem dropped his weapon down onto the snow, rather than risk breaking his arm.

"No good," Bull groused at him. "Pick it up and we'll try again."

"Ah, come on, chief," Krem pleaded. "It's too hard to concentrate today, you know, what with the business planned up at the Breach and all."

"Precisely why we're practicing," he countered, "You think I'd let an opportunity like this slip by? You've got to learn to keep your focus, no matter what is happening around you. Be aware of others, but don't let them distract you."

"You could always feint to his blind side," a new voice droned, "Then go low. He leaves himself open every time."

Bull spun to face the newcomer, blowing an exasperated breath out through his nose. "Well, what do you expect, Commander? It is my blind side, after all." Krem thought to take advantage of his distraction and swung at his back. He didn't turn around, but swept his sword behind him, once again blocking Krem's attack. After the ringing and reverberations stopped, he looked over his shoulder and smiled proudly. "Now you're getting the idea."

Krem backed up a step and straightened his shoulders, smiling.

"Oh, go on and change so you can go to the Breach to watch; you've earned the time off." He waited until Krem, smiling even larger now, raced off towards his tent. Then he focused his one eye on Cullen, pinning him to the spot before he could get away. "Something on your mind?"

"Er, no," Cullen denied, "I was just passing by, when I saw an opportunity to assist. I trust you didn't mind the interruption."

"Nah," Bull waved it aside, "I've got big feet, so when my toes get stepped on, there's still plenty that isn't sore. But since you're here, there is something I'd like to talk with you about."

"Actually, I only stopped for a moment out of professional curiosity, you understand. I was on my way elsewhere…" Cullen hedged, gesturing towards the chantry. He felt uneasy around the qunari; memories of Kirkwall came far too easily to mind this morning.

"It'll only take a minute. I could even walk with you, so you don't lose any time."

Backed into a corner, he gave in gracefully, "Very well."

As they headed through Haven's main gate, Bull fell into step beside Cullen, matching the shorter man's stride. "Do I really leave myself that far open?"

If Cullen was surprised by the question, he didn't show it. "Yes, it's something I've been noticing whenever you spar with one of your men. On your left, and low down, probably in line with your nose."

Bull huffed, scratching beneath the strap that kept the patch over his empty eye socket. "So, that's how it got me…"

"Beg your pardon?" Cullen asked, not so much curious as acting polite.

"Oh, the dragon the other day. Been trying to figure out how the damn thing got the drop on me. I remember getting hit from the left, down low, just like you said; it swept my feet right out from underneath me. Would've been killed, too, if it hadn't been for that Vint's magic." He laughed, a good-natured, in-the-moment type of sound. "Just goes to show, never underestimate your opponent, even a tired, crippled, old dragon."

"How do you underestimate a dragon?" All right, fine, perhaps he was a little curious. The story Varric told had been embellished a thousandfold, he was sure; getting a more realistic version from Bull would be refreshing.

"Like I said," Bull shrugged, unapologetic for his lapse in estimation, "It was old. Crippled so bad it couldn't fly. Half blind with cataracts. Its fire breath was no better than an asthmatic wheeze. It really wasn't worth it, killing the damn thing, other than putting it out of its misery. Oh, and Peredura, of course."

"Peredura?" This wasn't clearing matters up at all. The more Bull explained, the more lost Cullen became.

"Yeah, poor kid," he sighed, "She was so… I don't know… upset or distraught or something?… after her little jaunt into the future. I know she didn't tell us all that happened, but I can respect her wanting to keep some secrets. Still, she was edgy afterwards, antsy. She wanted to do something fun, like a reward, and remembered I had asked once about dragons around here. Well, truthfully," he stopped just short of Threnn's supply tent and leaned in closer to Cullen, "I had already looked into it. You see, on our way back from Redcliffe the first time, Solas heard about a dragon to the east. So, on our way to Redcliffe the second time, I did a little checking. Found out it was an old and crippled dragon, not much sport, so I figured I wouldn't bring it up. Not worth it, you know?"

"Oh, of course," Cullen deadpanned. At least, Bull thought he was playing along; he supposed the Commander could be serious.

"Anyway, after all the shit landed and the mages were squared away, Peredura wanted a dragon hunt so badly, and I already knew the dragon was mostly harmless, so I figured it wouldn't hurt." He chuckled again, his one eye lighting up with the memory. "Should've seen her! Dorian had her hunkered down behind a large boulder, and protected her at all times with that magic barrier. She was so far from the fight, her arrows didn't land anywhere near us! But she didn't notice, or maybe she didn't care. Ah, what a natural! She was issuing orders to the rest of us, warnings, ideas—kept her head like a champ! If it wasn't for that one lucky swipe…" he rubbed his patch again. "Bah, doesn't matter. The main thing is, she was never in any danger, and she got to feel important. Alive. Capable. So proud of herself and her abilities. But, ah," he leaned in close once more, "Don't tell her so. I mean, that the dragon was such a pushover. Might ruin her moment, you know?"

"Right," Cullen agreed automatically, "Wouldn't want her to feel the worse for it, would we…" Which is exactly what he had done, he realized. He quickly searched for another topic of conversation. "Er, what was it you wanted to talk about, anyway?"

"Oh, just wondering if it would be all right for me and my Chargers to accompany Peredura to the Breach. Krem's going anyway; could never keep him from missing a good show. But it'd be nice, and I'd feel a lot better, if I was there, too, to keep an eye on the Boss."

"Yes, why not?" Cullen sighed, "The more, the merrier."

Bull laughed, "Ha, ha, good! I'll go tell the men. Horn's up!" He slapped the Commander on the shoulder, hard, enough that he had to take half a step forward or risk ending up face first in a small snowdrift.

Cullen turned and watched him go, rubbing his arm and feeling the sting from the slap through his armor. Briefly he wondered if that truly was what Bull had wanted to ask him, as such a matter seemed better brought up with Peredura herself. He shook his head and set it aside, focusing on more practical matters. It had been an impulsive decision, allowing the Chargers to accompany them, but he didn't regret it. There were literally hundreds of mages coming with them to the Breach, and with no way of telling how many of those mages could be hiding blood magic or demons or other abominations… Well, the more fighters he had on their side—should anything go wrong—the better. And Bull had already proven he held more loyalty towards her than the Inquisition in general, the day he stood beside her, prepared to defend her as she told them all the truth about her past. Cullen was reasonably sure that Bull would protect Peredura with his dying breath.

Speaking of which, he was supposed to be meeting her and the other advisors in front of the chantry. He turned back and finished walking up the last few steps.

Peredura was already there, her honor guard in tow, her helmet—surprisingly, for once—dangling from one hand. She looked calm and fresh, like a young sapling growing in the shelter of a primeval forest, her long brown hair carefully pulled back to cover her ears, yet allowing part of her face to show. She was speaking with Solas, nodding her head, her brown eyes clear and focused. They were probably going over some last minute details, though how Solas knew so much about using the mark escaped Cullen. At least his theories proved useful, so far.

As he neared, he saw Solas give him a nod in greeting. Peredura turned, probably only out of curiosity to see who was approaching, for as soon as her eyes found his, she turned away again. No hesitation. No flicker of that shy smile. If anything, she seemed to face a little further away from him, as far as she could get without appearing rude towards Solas.

That, and her free hand impulsively found the dagger at her waist.

Yes, even he could tell he had hurt her feelings regarding the dragon. He cleared his throat as he drew near, not wishing to interrupt but knowing he should. He needed to apologize. It was the proper thing to do. And, giving a sly glance for Dorian and finding him absent, he wasn't to be sidetracked this time.

"…might feel a little strange, as hundreds of mages focus their power through you. Ah, Commander Cullen, we were just going over what Peredura should expect. Do you have anything to add?"

He looked to her, but she only offered him her profile, a scarred cheek half hidden behind overgrown bangs that were too short to be caught in her ponytail. "Only that Iron Bull and his Chargers will be joining us. No doubt he will wish to stay near you. That should offer you some comfort."

She swallowed before answering, "It does."

Solas sensed the awkwardness between them, but wisely decided to leave it be. "Well, the only other thing I have to add is this: I don't know what blood magic feels like, either as the mage or the one giving the blood. But I imagine what we are about to attempt might feel a bit like that, power coming from outside you, and within, combining, growing stronger than you've ever experienced. If you feel uncomfortable with this at any time, tell me, and we'll stop."

Her eyes had grown a little wider at the mention of blood magic, but she resolutely held her ground. "Don't worry, Solas. This needs to be done. I'm no stranger to discomfort."

"I don't mean the physical kind, though that could occur. I mean the emotional discomfort, of being reminded of something extremely unpleasant from your past." He set his hand on her shoulder. "It is important to close the Breach, yes, but you are also important. It will do us no good, to succeed in the one, only to lose the second."

She nodded, but even Cullen could see she was steeling her mind against the unknowable unpleasantness to come, her hand compulsively groping at the hilt of her dagger. She wasn't going to back down, no matter what happened.

"Yes, well, I should get going. I am to travel with Enchanter Vivienne and the other mages, being a mage myself, apostate or no. But I will see you there; I'll be right beside you the whole time." He touched her cheek, the scarred one, much like a father would, but with a sad sort of smile on his face, before he turned and walked away.

After he left, Peredura still didn't turn to face Cullen. Instead she stuffed her helmet on her head and began toying with the ties for the cheek guards.

"We don't have to go quite yet," he offered. "The mages are making the journey ahead of us, so we should allow extra time for them to travel there and get into position. You might be more comfortable while we wait, and better able to breathe, if you weren't wearing your helmet."

"I'll be fine," she answered, a hard edge to a voice that begged to crack with anxiety. But she allowed the cheek guards to dangle freely. "I'm still not used to how cold it is in the south."

He didn't know if the cold she referred to meant the weather, or the people. Or both. Peredura was not the same shy, unassuming girl she had been before the dragon hunt. Or had it been that dreadful trip to the future? Or even before, when she had to stand there and confess to being a Tevinter slave, perhaps that had been the event that started the change. However it occurred, the fact remained that she had been growing more sophisticated, in her vocabulary as well as her actions; she could also be developing a sense of sarcasm and a biting wit, especially considering all the time she spent with Varric. He squared his shoulders and faced her, mentally girding his loins for what could become a very unpleasant—though necessary—task. "Peredura, may I talk with you?"

She started at his words, and turned to face him fully, presenting an expression that was unexpected. Her lips were parted, he could tell that much with her cheek guards open, and what he could see of her cheeks was tinged a delicate pink beneath her scars, probably due to the chill. But it was her large doe eyes that captivated him, full of so many emotions he couldn't name them all. It was a complete about-face from her coolness of a moment before, and he had no idea what he had done or said this time that caused such a colossal reaction. It rattled him.

"Er, that is, if you wouldn't mind…"

"No!" she answered, too quickly and too eagerly, and he could see her give a little nip to her lip, "I mean, um, I suppose you have some last minute instructions, don't wander off, stay near The Iron Bull, watch out for falling rocks, and the like." It was an attempt at humor, he hoped it was anyway—otherwise she truly did look at him as being overbearing, overprotective, and authoritarian. He grudgingly admitted she had reasons to do so. He studied what he could see of her face, trying to determine what she meant. Her words trailed off underneath his scrutiny, and her cheeks left pink behind to turn bright red. She was joking. Good. That was a good sign, wasn't it, he asked himself.

"That, too," he allowed, hoping he sounded lighthearted for once. Then he grew serious, "But I, er, wanted to, that is, I feel I should, ah, say, something…" This time his words faded into nothingness. Not like he was making himself clear, anyway, but he should at least try to sound intelligent. One of the templars escorting Peredura shifted his feet, and Cullen was reminded things weren't so private. "Let's step over this way, shall we?" He didn't wait for an answer, but took her elbow and steered her a little bit away from her guard. When they made to follow, one glare from Cullen was enough to make them change their minds.

Peredura felt her heart racing, wondering why he wanted a private moment with her. She was confused by his demeanor changing so swiftly, courteous, flustered, commanding, even humorous? But… he had said her name, and there'd been a tiny flutter in her chest, something that reminded her of what Sera had once tried to describe; _'tinnnnngggghhhhllllyyyyy.'_

Could this be, she wondered. Dorian had said it might take time, but could this be the heretofore unknown 'feelings for someone' she had been hearing so much about? And for Cullen? Her heart did another little flip-flop at the thought. He had the potential, she knew, to develop feelings for her; could she be developing feelings for him as a result of something his future self might now never do…? It was confusing, especially as she was doing everything she could to keep that future from happening. She couldn't help but hope, however, that maybe, just maybe, that one little part of the forbidden fate could come to be. She let out a small sigh of regret when his hand left her elbow.

Cullen had no idea what was going through her head, and would have blushed as deep a red as she if he did know. Instead he was mired within his own internal struggle, knowing he should apologize, but having no idea where to start. Bull had mentioned he didn't think she knew the dragon wasn't so dangerous, so he couldn't start with that and ruin the feeling of accomplishment she'd tried so hard to gain… Oh, Maker's breath, this was awkward. Secrets and lies and half-truths. Why couldn't he simply come out and say the words he wanted to say?

"I, er, I know you're mad at me, and you have every right. I overreacted. Regarding the dragon…"

"Well, it WAS a dragon…"

"But I've spoken with Bull…"

"He made me stay back out of the fight…"

"Yes, and Dorian kept you very well protected…"

"You couldn't have known that…"

"Will you let me apologize?!"

She blinked her large, warmhearted brown eyes, momentarily startled into silence by his timid explosion. It didn't last long, as she licked her lips and replied, "Apology accepted."

"But I… that wasn't… I just… bah!" He let loose a heavy exhale and closed his eyes, missing her reaction. She had smelled the faint sweetness of lyrium on his breath, and it brought back to mind memories that were irrevocably linked to that scent. She took another breath, slowly through her nostrils, the cold air fresh and cleansing. By the time he opened his eyes again, she was back in control of herself.

"Thank you, Madam Herald."

She could only feel sadness at his statement. Formal, in words and tone and manner, pushing her away once more. She inclined her head, not trusting herself to keep the disappointment from her voice, and fidgeted with the dagger at her waist.

Cullen's eyes followed the movement, always tracking and ever alert for danger. His hazel gaze grew hard as he was finally close enough to get a good look at the weapon. "Is that blood on your dagger? Have you had to use it to protect yourself this morning? What happened? You there, guards!"

"No," she said, gripping his arm, shaking her head at the guards, hoping to keep this moment private, what little she could at any rate. "No, please, nothing happened this morning."

The guards hesitated, and Cullen gestured for them to stop. He didn't let Peredura off the hook so easily. "You're not saying that, trying to protect anyone, are you?" he asked, his suspicious mind instantly zeroing in on Dorian. He shifted and drew on the minimal power within him, as if the mage was standing right there, preparing himself to fight. Earlier he hadn't seen Dorian—who should be with the other mages—but there were plenty of bushes nearby, the tree line just beyond, with shadows and trunks thick enough to conceal…

"No, I'm not. Believe me. It was…" she briefly closed her eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to tell, but she had little choice. Dropping her face, staring at the folds where the front of Cullen's mantle closed over his breastplate, she answered, "It was from… that last trip… to Redcliffe…"

He stared at the top of her helmet for a moment longer, his expression as unreadable as his eyes, but he signaled the guards to return to their former positions. In his mind, there was very little that could excuse not taking care of one's weapon, something as grave to him as an unforgivable sin. He brought a gloved finger upwards to touch the tip of her chin and encouraged her to raise her face. He would have the truth of it. "What happened, Peredura?"

Again he unknowingly used her name, causing that strange reaction, those beautiful eyes to widen and her dark brown brows to curve. Her lip tried to hide between her teeth, but his hand was still nearby. His fingertip to her chin, it felt only natural for the pad of his thumb to curl around and pull her lip free. Too bad he was wearing gloves; it would have been gentler if the touch were skin on skin…

His took his hand away before she could notice the shaking. "You, ah, only spoke of it the one time," he forced himself to return to the subject at hand, "Without going into any details. Yet it is obvious, Peredura, that something is amiss, perhaps something you're having trouble letting go, if you find you cannot clean your weapon. What is it?"

She wanted to turn away, but was held captive by her own self. That tingly sensation ran through her at the sound of her name, leaving her feeling warm inside, while the horror of that abhorrent future closed down on her, leaving her gripping her arms for warmth. She opened her mouth, thinking she should answer, having no idea what she would say, and merely gaped like a fish.

"Peredura?"

Damn him, but he sounded so much like that future Cullen, calling for her, unsure that she was truly there. The words came unbidden, of their own volition, tumbling off her tongue. "When Dorian and I were in the future, we learned what had happened to the Inquisition. What everyone's fates were. It was… unpleasant."

"I can imagine," he agreed, thinking he should probably act sympathetic, encouraging her to continue.

"No," she shook her head, her eyes trying to grow wider, as if having more space would allow them to hold more unshed tears. "No, you can't imagine."

She took a swallow and stepped away, just a pace, just to give herself space to breathe. "So many were dead, but those that were alive weren't much better off. The Iron Bull and Varric and Solas were there, in the dungeon; they'd been force-fed red lyrium for months—a whole year, I think it was. And Leliana was in another part of the dungeon. She'd been given the Blight, and they were experimenting on her, torturing her, but she was still able to fight. All four of them died, buying us time with their lives, so Dorian and I could come back and fix everything.

"But others had died before them," she continued, unable to stop, feeling compelled to get it all out now that she had finally started. "Blackwall had managed to escape Redcliffe Castle, and made it back to Haven where he joined Josephine. He was trying to get her to Antiva when the demon army caught up with them. Josephine died during the fight, and Blackwall of his wounds shortly after reaching the dungeon. Vivienne was dead, too, killed by her own fire spell when she took out a cell full of guards. Cassandra was in the cell across from her; she got caught by the spell and died, too. And Sera… she… her neck was snapped… when the guards tried to… The Iron Bull wouldn't say it… but I know what he meant…"

Cullen listened to it all, stoically. It was hard, hearing how their fates might have turned out, if it wasn't for Peredura. But she wasn't dead, and the Inquisition was alive and well, and they had the mages on their side. "But after today," he tried to reason with her, "After the Breach is sealed, that other future can never be. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded, her hand grabbing the hilt of her dagger. With her face turned away, he couldn't be sure, but he suspected she was once more chewing her lip. Someone should break her of that habit. He could break her of that habit, give her lip something more interesting to do, catch it between his teeth for a change and…

NO! he thought to himself. It was merely the obsession once more, stealing his reason and tainting his motives. There was nothing between himself and Peredura, except duty. He pushed the visions to the back of his mind, and refocused his attention on her. He wasn't so addled by withdrawal that he had missed what she had said, or hadn't said, a moment ago. "You left someone out, didn't you?"

She shook her head. "Please… no…"

"I admit, it sounds like a bleak future," he continued, "And the others' fates are not to be envied, but I have to know, Peredura, I must know: whose blood is on that dagger? Why won't you clean it? Tell me!"

She trembled again at his command, like a brown-tinted autumn leaf about to drop from the branch. "I won't clean it, I won't remove the blood, I won't let myself forget the blood I've spilled, not until I have assured that the other future won't happen. I promised. To myself. Because… it's your blood," she ended in a whisper. When there was no immediate uproar or denial, she grew a little more encouraged. Also, it was much easier, talking to the snowbank. She didn't have to see his face, didn't have to watch the fear and horror take over his strong and confident features. "You'd evaded capture for months, led the templars in a revolt, but you and your men ran out of lyrium, the right kind. It was inevitable, that you'd be overwhelmed and captured. You were put in the cell across from The Iron Bull, and force fed red lyrium, too. Only…"

She paused and again he could imagine that lip, being tortured by her teeth. Maker's breath, but why did that vision come to mind so easily? And why did it make him feel? He should be aghast over the horror she was describing of what he had become, but all he could think about was the comfort he should offer her.

"The Iron Bull thought, because you'd been a templar, your body was more used to lyrium. It didn't take long, for the changes, to take over. In the few months that you were there, your arm… your leg… your chest…"

She could not force her words to cease. He could not force himself to speak.

"About half your body was already gone, but the lyrium wouldn't let you die. It kept you alive, even while it… killed you. It was slow. And painful. And you asked me… begged me… to end it…"

Silence filled the air behind her. It was heavy, palpable, suffocating, pressing against her bodily, urging her to turn. Yet she remained immobile. Somehow, though she knew it was childish, she clung to the idea that if she didn't turn around, if she didn't find him standing there, if she didn't see his reaction, then he would remain ignorant of the terrible future that might have awaited him, would have awaited him.

At last there was a sound behind her, breaking into her thoughts, making her pick her ears up to listen. It wasn't the painful sobs of lament, nor the maddening cries of denial, but the tender sigh of empathy. "Peredura."

Again her name sounded like a prayer upon his lips.

"Peredura," he repeated, setting a hand on her shoulder. When he tugged, she didn't resist, her body moving to face his.

"Peredura, I understand. I do," he pressed, when it looked like she might shake her head. Swallowing hard, hating the cost, he continued, trying to keep it as impersonal as possible, "I know what it's like, to have to take the life of a friend, to end their suffering. I've had to do the same thing. The circle in Ferelden that I… where I became a templar, when it fell, there was a friend of mine, a fellow templar, she…"

His words simply stopped.

Timidly her eyes lifted upwards, still swimming in tears, but he was not looking at her, his eyes a hundred miles away. "What happened?"

He came back to himself and shook his head, unable to give it voice. "The circle fell. That's all I can say. But my friend was dying, slowly, painfully, and I ended her suffering. I took her life. So I know how you feel. I know the doubt, the second-guessing, the guilt. I still wonder to this day, if I did the right thing, if she hated me for taking her life, or if she understood. Peredura, I can give you the peace of mind I've been denied. I know what that other me must have gone through. I do know," he affirmed when she started shaking her head. He pushed aside the memory of his former Knight-Commander, Meredith and continued, "I've seen what red lyrium can do to a person, to a templar. You did the right thing. And on behalf of that other Cullen, I thank you."

At long last the dam broke. Tears flooded her cheeks, falling like a torrent between helmet and skin, to soak the lining. Her thin body shook, nearly convulsing with the force of her sobs. He grabbed her, mostly to keep her from pitching into the snow, but also because he knew it was expected of him. He had just expunged her of guilt, for having taken/will take his life in his future which was now a part of her past, or something like that. Regardless, the tears were a good thing, or so he told himself, but since he'd helped cause them, he knew he should remain at her side and weather the storm, as it were.

He awkwardly put his hands on her back, and allowed her to rest against his breastplate.

Peredura couldn't have said exactly why she was crying so hard; there were too many reasons, to many impressions that couldn't be put into words. She wept for the Cullen whose life she took. She wept for the Cullen who didn't love her, at least possibly not quite yet. She wept for the future that would never be, while praying for the future that may be. She wept for her friends who'd died in the future, but hadn't died yet in the present. She wept for herself, lost and adrift in a new world—a new life—that despite its hardships and dangers and far-reaching significance was still infinitely preferable to her old life.

Damn it, she wept because she'd stubbed her toe that morning and it was still hurting!

Something was pressed against the skin of her face, wedging in between her and the cold metal of his armor. It was right under her nose, and though stuffy her nose was clear enough to smell the delicate scent of lilacs. She sniffed, the scent growing stronger as her nose began to unclog, and brought a hand to her face.

Cullen removed his hand, once he was sure Peredura had a good grip on the handkerchief, and leaned her away from him. Then he stood, silent and strong, while she fixed herself. Slowly the sobs eased into sniffles, the sniffles into shuddering breaths, the breaths into a rather wimpy rude noise, muffled by the handkerchief. "Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded, holding the handkerchief in front of her face, staring at it. Hesitantly she offered it back to him, even soiled, thinking she wouldn't have the time to clean it like she did before.

"You might as well keep the bloody thing; you know I've got plenty. And no doubt you'll use it more than I ever will."

A timid smile pulled up one corner of her mouth. "Thank you," she whispered, stuffing it into her jacket.

"Madam Herald," Leliana's voice called, "We're ready whenever you are."

Peredura glanced around Cullen to see them standing there, Cassandra and Leliana and Josephine, Bull and his Chargers just behind, all ready to accompany her and witness her success. She shook her head, ducking back behind Cullen's broad shoulders to whisper, "No, I'm not ready, I must look a mess, they'll know I've been crying…"

"Here," he offered, pulling her cheek guards closed and securing the ties. "This will hide all your sins. Now you look confident and capable, ready to close a Breach!"

She nodded, a lot more sober than he would have liked, but her eyes were clear and bright and—most importantly—without tears. "We should probably get going. Though it's not like they can start without me."

Yes, she was developing a sense of humor. Though he found it comforting, he idly wondered if it might cause trouble some day. "Madam Herald," he gestured for her to take the lead. A brief flicker of sadness crossed those eyes. A moment later and her hand found the hilt of the dagger, as if seeking comfort from the bloody reminder of a future that must never be. He put his hand over hers, "Let me hold that for you."

She hesitated, but only for a moment. Her other hand fumbled at her waist, undoing the buckle, before she passed the dagger over, sheath and belt and all. Then she turned and started her journey up the mountain, to the ruins of the temple, to where she would seal her fate, and the fate of the world.

* * *

Why did things always go wrong wherever she was concerned? Peredura asked herself rhetorically as she stared across at Commander Cullen.

The Breach had been closed, mages and templars and refugees celebrating together, everyone feeling hope that at last things would turn out. Yet it was merely the calm before the storm…

A demon horde, just like the one in the future that she had tried so hard to change.

An army full of former templars infected with red lyrium, though not as fully infected as Cullen had been.

An ancient abomination calling himself the Elder One, an arch demon in tow.

A strange boy who should be so remarkable and yet seemed so easy to overlook.

And now Cullen suggesting mass suicide.

"We're dying," he argued his case, "But we can decide how. Many don't get that chance." His voice grew quiet towards the end, full of emotion, of painful experience, of eternal regret.

Peredura shook her head. "You're suggesting we bury the Elder One and his arch demon beneath an avalanche, and all of Haven with him! No, Commander, I can't do that. I won't! There must be another way…"

"Yes," a gentle voice spoke up, "Yes, that. Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to tell you, before he dies."

Peredura eagerly turned towards Chancellor Roderick, but Cullen spoke first. "I thought I told you to take him to the healers."

"No, there's no time," Roderick waved the offer aside. "I must tell you about this." Quickly he explained about the hidden pathway he had found, overgrown and overlooked, during a summer pilgrimage. "This could be more than mere accident. You," he turned to look Peredura full in the face, "Could be more…"

Peredura walked up to him, hope shining in her eyes, not for her, but for the others, and for Roderick. If someone like him could change his mind and soften his heart and believe—believe in her, believe in the Inquisition… "He needs to get to a healer, or he'll never make it." She was looking at Roderick, but her statement was addressed to Cullen.

Roderick was already shaking his head, but Cullen answered for him. "It's too late now. If he takes the time, the rest of us won't have a chance to make it out of here alive. He knows what he's doing, Peredura. His life, for all of ours."

She nodded, once, but her eyes were like ancient wood, weathered and worn and enduring, when she looked up at Cullen. "His won't be the only sacrifice."

"No…" he moaned, softly, his hand reaching out to grab her arm before she could slip away. "We can get out of here through the passage Chancellor Roderick mentioned. All of us."

"You heard what Cole said," she referred to the quiet, pale boy who was helping Roderick to his feet. "The Elder One wants me. He'll go through everyone else to get to me. If I flee with you, he'll only pursue and I'll continue to put you all in danger. We have to stop him. Here. Now. Tonight. I have to stop him. I'll stay behind, distract him, while you lead the others to safety. Then I'll use the trebuchets to bury him and Haven." She lifted her arm free from his shock-frozen fingers, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, barely visible within her opened cheek guards. "At least I waited, to risk my neck, until after the Breach was sealed."

He hesitated, extremely out of character for the Commander of the Inquisition's forces. But then again, he had been surprising her a lot today. "This isn't at all what I meant…"

She swallowed, "I know."

He inclined his head; she had made her choice, and he would respect it. And he had a job to do, too. He stalked away, giving orders with an authoritative tone, gesturing and signaling as he went. "Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. Move!"

As Roderick limped towards the back of the chantry, supported by Cole's shoulders, he paused to say to her, "I'll… pray for you… Peredura…"

She wanted to let her eyes fill with tears, but she couldn't afford the wasted time or effort. They were joined now, she and Roderick, in their dual sacrifice. More importantly, he was willing to accept her; better late than never, especially if his prayers held any weight with the Maker. "Thank you, Chancellor. I appreciate it."

Cullen came back as Roderick went away, Abbets and Devensport dogging his heels. As he slowed to talk with her, they continued out the main door, running as fast as they could. "These two are to load the trebuchets, but it will be up to you to fire them."

"Understood," she agreed. "I'll send them after you, when the trebuchets are armed."

Cullen nodded, unsurprised that she would not keep the two former templars with her, wishing to save everyone possible. "You must keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the tree line. I'll try to signal when we're safe. Peredura, if we are to have a chance," he paused, wanting to take back his words, rephrase them to hold more meaning. "If YOU are to have a chance, make as much noise as you can. Let that thing hear you!" He handed back her dagger, the one he'd taken from her that morning. "And try, for all our sakes… perhaps surprise it somehow? You're certainly good at surprising people."

She wanted to smile at that, but again there was no time.

"You're not going to a fight without me, Boss," Bull lumbered up with his greataxe balanced on one shoulder.

"Or I," added Dorian, coming up on Cullen's other side.

Peredura felt she should order them away, but truthfully she needed the companionship. "All right, but you'll follow my orders, both of you. If I tell you to run, then run. Understood?" She got a vehement nod from Dorian, and a reluctant shrug from Bull. "Very well. You have your orders, too, Commander."

"Yes, Ser!" he gave her a smart salute. It was safer, acting professional and militant, than allowing himself to look too deeply into those other actions he wanted to take. He spun on his heel and helped the last of the stragglers along, not daring even once to look behind him.


	9. Nothing, If Not Tested

Dorian's life was full of regret.

He regretted leaving Peredura behind to face the Elder One alone.

He regretted never having found out how she came to know so much about Tevinter, like how she knew the difference between an altus and a magister. He should have asked her if she had a relative who had spent time in Tevinter, someone he might have come across, which might explain why she sometimes looked so familiar, yet he was sure they had never met.

He regretted not taking his former mentor, Alexius, up on his offer to join the Venetori. Then he might have been able to spy on them, gather some useful information before defecting to the Inquisition, and have somehow headed off this disaster.

He regretted not taking Blackwall or someone else useful with them to protect Peredura—and to help him carry Bull's hulking weight. The large qunari staggered next to him, his one good eye wide and glassy, blood covering the other side of his face thanks to a large head wound.

Fasta vass! He regretted ever leaving Tevinter. He should have stayed there and buried his head in the sand. Or… perhaps… taken a chance with Rilienus. Or allowed his father to do with him as he had wished, he added bitterly. At least, as a mindless vegetable, he'd not have to suffer the fear and anguish he was feeling now.

But at that moment, what he regretted most, was allowing Bull to talk him into going with to help Peredura. He should have stayed with the other refugees, fled with them, not get himself left behind. Now he faced the impossible task of tracking the Inquisition through snow while trying to keep an injured qunari on his feet.

Dorian kicked open the door at the back of the chantry and stopped, surprised. Scratch that last regret off his list; in retrospect he should have expected this. It would be nearly impossible for hundreds of refugees, mages, and templars to walk a path through the forest and mountains and NOT leave a trail as wide as a river. It looked like a hundred qunari abreast had tramped through here. Since he no longer would have trouble following the Inquisition, all he had do to now was make it out of the valley in time. Right. Simple enough. He shifted the arm over his shoulder and steered the lumbering gray giant after the others.

Further along the trail, Bull came to his senses, or at least became inclined to talk. "Hm," Bull hummed into his ear, in what he was sure Bull thought of as a sexy voice, "You smell nice."

Dorian made a brief noise of frustration mingled with disgust. "Hardly, you over-amorous ox-man. I'm soaked with sweat and covered in gore."

"I know," Bull inhaled deeply, his nose pressing as close to the neckline of Dorian's robes as possible, his arm tightening around Dorian's shoulders to keep him from pulling away. "You smell… masculine… all testosterone and adrenaline, like you're ready for a fight. I'd love to fight with you, sometime."

"You're concussed," Dorian rebuffed, "Out of your mind."

"We could wrestle, you and me, no magic or weapons. We could even do it they way they did in Ancient Tevinter."

Dorian had to stop walking so he could stare at him. "You want to wrestle in the nude?!"

"You'd rather do it with your clothes on?" Bull countered and shrugged, which caused him to sway a little. "Either way, it makes no difference to me. I can take you robed," he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Dorian's, getting blood on the mage, "Or disrobed."

"Vishante kaffas!" Dorian was disgusted enough to speak in Tevinter. He pulled his head away and forced the two of them back to walking. "You don't know what you're suggesting. The only comfort I have is that you won't remember this, when you're recovered."

"Maybe," sighed Bull, nuzzling at his neck, "But YOU will…"

"Vishante kaffas!"

"You said that."

"Iron Bull! Dorian!" a voice called to them, and Dorian felt relief when he looked up and saw Commander Cullen coming back down the path. "Hurry. You're almost there. Get over the rise, and you'll find where we're regrouping before moving on." He ducked under Bull's other arm to help take up some of the weight. "Any, er, sign of, I mean, Peredura, is she…?"

"She's the distraction, remember?" Dorian grunted when Bull stumbled and staggered into him a little too harshly. "She ordered us to leave her, after the final wave of red templars was repulsed. This stupid ox had gotten himself brained and in need of healing." Dorian took a moment to breathe, before he finished, "I cast one last barrier spell on her, and left her to her fate."

Cullen could hear the regret in the other man's voice, and interpreted it wrongly. Feeling like he might have intruded where he wasn't wanted, and not wishing to give the impression that he himself cared for Peredura, he looked to change the subject. "Right. Of course. You there," Cullen called to another soldier. "Help Ser Dorian take Iron Bull into camp. See that he gets to a healer." He passed the Bull's arm to the soldier, neatly taking care of Dorian and the awkward moment in the process. Then, before he could allow himself to hesitate, he turned to the archer nearby. "It's time. Everyone's here who's going to make it. Send the signal."

The archer fitted her arrow to her bow, lit the wadding around the head from a nearby torch, and took careful aim while adjusting for the wind. Dorian paused to look over Bull's arm as the burning arrow took flight, wondering if this would be the last sight he'd associate with the remarkably unremarkable Herald of Andraste…

…Peredura had regrets, from her life before the Breach, before the Conclave, regrets she never wanted to admit to much less name. But even since then she'd gained more regrets.

She regretted the noble notion that encouraged her to sacrifice herself to an ancient evil.

She regretted sending Dorian and Bull away, as their company and experience would have come in handy right about now. But Bull had been injured, and if either of them had stayed behind, the Elder One would have killed them without a second thought. Thanks to that other future, she already had the deaths of enough friends on her conscience; she didn't want more.

She also regretted never telling Cullen how she felt, tested the timid feelings—as his future self had described them. Not that there had been much time for that. The celebrations had started on the heels of her closing the Breach, and though she looked for him among the dancing and singing, Cullen had remained elusive. She didn't see him until after the fighting had started, and by then there was no time for speaking of personal feelings that may or may not evolve.

But at that moment, what she regretted most was not having put on her usual extra layers of clothing.

The wind was cold, bitingly cold, having robbed her armor of any warmth it may have once held. She wrapped her good arm around her front and gripped her other elbow, steadying her left arm, which had been hurting her ever since the Elder One had tried to remove the anchor. Somehow, by some miracle of luck or hand of Andraste, she had survived the avalanche at Haven by falling into a disused underground passage.  But of course she had landed on her left shoulder.

Now she was out of the cave, trudging through the snow, head bowed into a blizzard, searching for the others. Facing the full force of the weather was not ideal, but if she wanted to be reunited with the Inquisition, she had to go after them, and that had meant leaving the safety and protection of the cave.

She stumbled through a deep drift, lost her balance, and started to fall. Almost as soon as she started she stopped, her side slamming into something hard and upright. Her shoulder, the one that was already hurting of course, exploded with pain, a sympathetic starburst filling her vision. She let out a small cry, instantly swallowed by the howling wind, and blinked her eyes clear.

A tree. She had staggered unknowingly into a tree. And there were more, a forest, growing thicker on her left, but it was the trees on the edge she was interested in. Not too far away was another campfire, like the one she had found upon exiting the cave. She stumbled up and fell to her knees beside it, hoping, praying, as her hand let go of her sore arm and reached towards the embers.

Was there heat there, she wondered. Or was it simply a little bit warmer here, just inside the trees, where the storm started having trouble penetrating. Throwing caution to the wind—there was plenty of wind—she stuffed her half-frozen fingers into the deepest part of the ashes.

Warmth. Not much, but enough. This campfire was fresher than the last. Inwardly she blessed Blackwall for his lessons on campfires, while outwardly she pushed herself to her feet. She was gaining on them. Another few hours, perhaps a day, and she would be with them once more.

Be with Cullen once more…

…Cullen added yet another regret to a long list of them, a list he didn't bother to count. He'd performed enough acts in his life, made enough hard decisions, seen enough injustices done, to know you can't live your life without regrets. But this latest regret had to be the worst.

He should never have left Peredura behind.

It did no use, lamenting the choices made. The past was the past, unchangeable, uncaring of your intentions. All you could do was remember it, learn from it, and keep from making the same mistakes.

That wouldn't be hard this time, he supposed, avoiding making this mistake. Peredura was one of a kind, brave, resourceful, an intuitive leader, a quicker learner. She was the Herald of Andraste, the one who survived the destruction of the Conclave, the one with a mark that could close the rifts, the one who had closed the Breach.

Deep down inside his heart he knew: they'd never see her like again.

He'd done what he could since they parted in Haven. He had explained her sacrifice to the other advisors. He had led the Inquisition to a valley that would shelter them from the weather. He kept everyone busy, setting up camp, scouting for passes through the mountains, assigning parties to scavenge the wilderness for food. He had collected all the available lyrium and worked out rations for himself and the other templars.

It had been hard work, delegating tasks and assignments, but it didn't take long for everyone to accept his commands, for every cog to fall into place, for the entire campsite to start to run cleanly and efficiently. Inevitably, however, with everyone having a place and doing their jobs, he quickly ran out of things for himself.

Now he had nothing to do but wait for useless and conflicting reports. It had been two days since they left Haven, two days and one full night, with no sign or word of Peredura's fate. Worse, they were lost. The scouts were reporting back, some thinking they recognized a landmark that put them south of Haven, others saying west, or northeast… nothing that was of any use!

His fist crumpled the map and threw it from the table. The damn thing wasn't worth the parchment it was drawn on, not if they didn't know where they were. The mountains between Ferelden and Orlais were too treacherous, too full of vast canyons and insurmountable peaks. If he didn't know exactly where they were, he couldn't plot a course to safety that would avoid the worst of the terrain. He hated feeling this way, worthless, futile, inadequate. He felt a snarl curl his lip, and prayed for something he could vent his anger against.

"Commander?" someone called from the front of the tent, and he recognized the voice of Harding, one of the aforementioned ineffectual scouts.

No, he told himself, that was the lyrium withdrawal affecting his judgment. The scout was too easy a target, too coincidental a timing, and too undeserved a reason. He didn't turn until he had control of himself, the only sign of his distress the crumpled map on the ground and his fist wrapped tightly around the pommel of his sword. "Scout Harding, isn't it? Come to deliver your report. Do you have an idea where we are?" He couldn't make his voice sound pleasant, but he could make it sound less hateful.

"Not exactly, Commander," she hedged. "But I do have news. One of the other scouts saw signs of someone following us." The other scout she mentioned was standing slightly behind her, fidgeting, perhaps too fearful of approaching the fuming Commander on his own. Cullen didn't feel guilt over this, too distracted by the information.

"The Elder One?" he asked, wanting to rule out the worst possibility first. And judging by Harding's shaking head and wide smile, he had done so.

"No, Ser, one person. They were spotted when they crested the second hill to the northwest not an hour past; they silhouetted themselves against the sunset. It looks like they're following our trail. Heading straight for this valley, anyway."

"Where, exactly, was this person seen?" he came around from behind the table, his voice eager, and gripped her arm. "Show me!"

Harding didn't answer, except to start leading him towards the edge of camp.

Perhaps it was the eagerness of his steps. Perhaps it was the joyfulness of Harding's smile. Perhaps it was the way Cassandra got up to follow, grabbing a torch to join them, but those they passed—the exhausted and footsore and half-starved refugees from Haven—lifted their faces and followed them with eyes filled with expectation.

And hope.

* * *

Peredura was cold.

She was numb with cold.

Her breaths were stuttering, hindered by eternal shivering she could not control, despite the fact that she was so cold she couldn't feel cold. Even her mind seemed frozen solid, her body moving of its own will, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot… Over and over and over again as the unchanging snow passed beneath her. Her ears could hear the howling of wolves, a sound that had grown so constant she couldn't be sure it wasn't the wind. That was all her existence consisted of: the white of snow, the howl of wind, the numbness of cold.

The snow changed once she left the trees, becoming knee deep, covered with a crisp crust created by the never-ending wind, a crust that could not support her weight. The rhythm of her steps changed, synchronized and punctuated with a staccato upbeat. Catch the heel, set the right foot, hesitate, fall through, catch the heel, set the left foot, hesitate, fall through, catch the heel, set the right foot, hesitate, fall through…

At least her arm and the mark stopped hurting.

On second thought, she had a fleeting worry that that might be a bad sign, but she didn't dwell on it. There was nothing she could do for her arm, or the numbness, or the snow and the cold, except to keep moving, keep following the faint trail, keep heading towards that next camp. She imagined she could see it, in the distance, a little valley nestled warm and secure within the bosom of the mountains. There was the welcoming glow of campfires surrounded by tiny figures—little black specks more seen because they moved than for any distinguishing characteristics. Cullen would be in there, she was sure, somewhere, giving orders and keeping everyone together and busy and safe and supplied.

She wondered if Dorian had gotten The Iron Bull out in time. A smile tugged her lips as she imagined Bull walking through camp, his horns so imposing that people ducked whenever he passed. He would be an unmistakable figure, tall and thick and gray with those brightly colored pants, easily discernible even from a great distance.

Peredura nearly tripped, her breath steaming through the seam between her cheek guards, appearing in little wisps only to be whisked away by the wind and the dark. It took a moment, an immeasurable mind-staggering moment, for it to register: the valley was real. The campfires and figures were real. She even thought she could see one with brightly striped pants and wide horns walking over to an awning and sitting down on something.

She'd done it. She'd found them. The feeling of accomplishment was overwhelming, knowing it was over, that she could finally stop struggling and rest. She sank to her knees in the snow, but she hardly noticed it, her eyes glued to where a light was shifting around the side of a boulder and coming into view.

"There! It's her!"

She smiled within her helmet. That had been Cullen's voice, shouting the alert. Somehow she wasn't surprised he had been the first to see her. Shadows began moving towards her as the night grew so dark even the torch they brought couldn't dispel the blackness.

"Thank the Maker…"

Yes, she echoed Cassandra's prayer in her heart, and thank Roderick for praying for her, and Blackwall for teaching her, and…

"Peredura," Cullen's voice called, and she felt warm to hear him call her name, the first warmth in her blood that she had in what seemed like days. "Peredura? Can you hear me? Stay with me, Pere, stay awake!"

He'd given her an order, and she tried to obey, she truly tried to obey. She never wanted to disappoint him, ever. But she was so tired, and cold. And hadn't she done enough? Hadn't she distracted the Elder One, escaped the avalanche, tracked them through a blizzard, and found their little valley? "Let someone else do that; I'm done."

"What did she say?" Cassandra asked, kneeling on her other side.

Cullen didn't look up, shrugging out of his mantle and wrapping it around Peredura. He could see her eyes were open, though barely, and her gentle breath slipped through the front slit of her helmet. "I couldn't make it out," he admitted, undoing the cheek guards, knowing she'd be colder but it'd be easier for her to breathe. "She's exhausted and half frozen, but she is alive. Let's get her back to camp and warmed up; then she can tell us what happened." He picked her up, armor and all, barely noticing the weight. His heart was rejoicing; Peredura was alive.

One regret would be forgiven, only one of a thousand, but it was still erased, lightening the load in his heart. And he promised himself, no matter the cost, he would not fail her—or the Inquisition—again!

"Commander!" Leliana's voice called, holding another torch, she and Josephine meeting them just outside camp. "Is it true? Is she…?" she never finished her question, seeing the answer lying there in his arms. They quickly fell into step beside Cullen and the others.

"She's cold, but alive," he answered. "I don't know if she's hurt…"

"My arm," Peredura managed to chatter, feeling coming back to her as she warmed up in his embrace, "S-s-s-solas. Get Solas…" She turned the palm of her hand over; the green glow was explanation enough.

"I will personally fetch him for you," Josephine promised. "We'll meet you at the hospital tent."

"If we can get there," Cullen muttered darkly as she raced off.

Their entrance into camp was witnessed by more people than their hasty exit. A crowd quickly gathered, voices asking questions, hands reaching out to touch—to make physically sure—that the Herald of Andraste was alive. At one point, some anonymous zealot nearly pulled her helmet from her head with their eagerness. Cullen cursed as Cassandra and the others tried to order the people back, but they were too desperate; after all they'd seen and suffered, they needed this miracle. He could sympathize, the fact that she lived was nothing less than a miracle, but he needed to get her to shelter if the miracle was to continue.

It seemed Peredura still had some clout with the Maker, for yet another miracle occurred. Templars fought their way through the crowd, shoving and pushing and ordering the refugees to step back. Interspersed among them were mages, staffs in hand, ready to bar the way. Templars and mages, shoulder to shoulder, working for a common purpose; the thought made Cullen shake his head in wonder. Then slowly, irregularly, like an undulating snake, the templars and mages managed to hold the onlookers at bay and open a clear path towards the hospital tent.

Cullen needed no further urging. He carried her quickly though gently, his long and powerful legs eating the distance with a singleminded purpose. Stoically he refused to answer all questions, leaving Leliana with the daunting task of satisfying the crowd's curiosity. After all it had been her idea, from the beginning, to encourage the rumors and stories of divine intervention on Peredura's behalf. And if he could believe the few comments he heard by the time he got Peredura to the surgeon's tent, he was sure her status was well on its way to becoming legendary.

It was the Chargers' surgeon who met him. "Put her on the cot there," Stitches ordered, "And give us some room."

"I'd rather have Mother Giselle…"

"She's with Chancellor Roderick," Stitches countered, "Who's very critical right now, probably worse off than the Herald. But if you'd rather wait…"

Bull was only two cots over, and lifted himself up onto his elbows, grunting when his head started pounding. "Having some trouble, Stitches? I feel well enough to bash in a head or two, if it's warranted."

"No thanks, Chief," the Chargers' surgeon answered, watching carefully while Cullen set her down, "Got it under control. And lie back down before you bash in your own head. Again. I just finished re-stitching it."

Bull huffed, but did as he was told. His head felt like it was splitting in two, though it had been worth it, the headache and the extra stitches, to go sneak that bottle of mead.

"I'm not hurt," Peredura forced out between her clacking teeth without managing to bite her own tongue. "Just the mark. And cold. And tired. But that's all."

"I'll get you something hot to drink," Stitches offered, stepping back.

Solas was there the next moment, pushing his way past Cullen, his face filling first with shock, then with hope. "You live! As ever, Peredura, you find new ways to surprise us. Now, what is this about your hand?"

"Commander? There was a little more we need to tell you." It was Harding again, and though Cullen longed to hover over Peredura, to make sure she would be all right, he knew duty was calling. Cursing the timing, he stepped back outside the tent, leaving Peredura in Solas' very capable hands.

"Yes? What is it?"

If his tone was a little harsher, Scout Harding tactfully chose not to comment. She was standing alone this time, the other nameless scout having left at some point, probably when the crowd appeared. "One of the scouts, the one who first saw the Herald? He said there was a pack of wolves following her, the Herald, on her way here, but they broke off about half a mile back to follow a herd of sheep instead."

Cullen smiled, another coincidence—or another miracle—he didn't care to discern at that moment. "Take a group of our best marksmen. Hunt those wolves down and kill every last one of them. And as many of the sheep as you can. The meat will fill a lot of stomachs over the next few days, and we can always use the extra hides and wool."

"I'll take charge of it personally, Commander," she saluted.

Cullen watched her salute and race off, the thought of fresh meat and a warm meal no doubt doing more to encourage her weary legs than his authority. He had to admit, his own mouth was watering at the thought of all that mutton.

Had the wolves not followed Peredura here, had they not broken off trailing her in favor of a larger source of food, the Inquisition might never have known of the passing herd…

He sent a quick prayer of gratitude to the Maker before returning to the tent.

The others had gathered by that time, Solas remaining by Peredura's side, though it was clear her hand was no longer causing her grief. Bull was sitting up and had moved to the closer cot, braced by Varric and Blackwall on either side. Vivienne and Leliana and Josephine sat on the opposite bunk, while Cassandra and Dorian stood at the foot. There was a strange boy, the one from before, lurking off to the side, but Cullen couldn't be bothered to notice him.

Sera set herself right at her feet, and often while Peredura talked, the mischievous elf would tap or bump her boot until Peredura finally had enough and kicked her—gently—off the cot. Sera remained on the ground, giggling, which annoyed the others but made Peredura smile.

Peredura herself looked better already, sitting up, though bundled within a mountain of pelts and blankets. There was a slight warming flush to her cheeks and a steaming cup of something in her hands, which thankfully were no longer shaking. Cullen moved up to stand between Dorian and Cassandra, his face impassive.

"I, ah," she cleared her throat, "I suppose, now that we're all here, I should start at the beginning."

"Start from when you sent Dorian and Iron Bull away," Cullen suggested quickly, unthinkingly. He was merely eager to hear the part they didn't know, not go over the things they already knew. Yet she shot him a look, half-embarrassed/half-grateful, that left him wondering what he had done this time to earn her gratitude. The next moment he remembered; their last conversation in the chantry had been slightly personal. No, he thought as he scratched the back of his head, he wouldn't want the others to know about his scolding her, forbidding her to risk her neck until after the Breach was closed. He truly hadn't meant it that way.

"Oh, um," she stalled for time to gather her wits by taking a sip from her cup, "After they left, there was this spell, I think, some sort of explosive force, but without fire or wind or thrown debris or anything like that. It just… pushed me, knocked me off my feet. I don't think I passed out, but it took a bit of time for me to make sense of what was around me. Then he was there, the Elder One. He calls himself Corypheus…"

* * *

Peredura wanted to believe.

She felt she should; after all, she was the Herald of Andraste.

Or was she, she wondered to herself. She couldn't remember being anything special, either being chosen by the Maker, or being sent from Andraste. She hadn't met Andraste in the Fade but the Divine. Or had it been the Divine; it might have been a dream, for all she knew. She leaned against a convenient pole and stared across the small clearing to where the advisors were arguing. So much of that time, of what happened at the Conclave, was absent from her mind. It wasn't like her life before, as a slave to Vicici; she wanted to FORGET those memories, even though they lingered like a dank cesspool in the back of her mind. No, she wanted to REMEMBER the Conclave, but the memories simply weren't there. If only she could, it would answer so many questions, clear away so many doubts, settle once and for all what—or in whom—she should believe.

Instead, the doubts continued, lingering, growing like a cancer in her soul. Corypheus had only added to them. He had taken one look at her and laughed, laughed at her for pretending to be the Herald, sneered gloatingly over her ignorance, taunted her that the only reason she had the anchor was because she had failed her master. She didn't know what he was talking about. How he could recognize her when she had never seen him before—his was not a face one would be likely to forget. It made no sense, and the lack of understanding created more doubt.

Doubt. There was too much doubt. She was drowning in a sea of it, her heart wanting to turn bitter and disillusioned!

Who was she, really? Just a slave from Tevinter, a girl who had willingly allowed her master to use her blood to perform such atrocities… No, she would not think of that. But she knew: she was definitely no one to be worshipped, no one to offer guidance or wisdom, no one who could save these people… comfort them… lead them…

She turned her gaze towards them, the people: refugees and recruits, templars and mages, peasants and noblemen. She remembered what they whispered behind her back at Haven, giving her such unearned credit, such undeserved glory. Survived the Conclave. Sent by Andraste. Rescued the mages. Closed the Breach… Suddenly she felt the weight of their faith in her like a heavy yoke, choking her, pulling her down, forcibly humbling her to her knees. They expected too much of her; she was only one person! No one special. She couldn't lead them. She couldn't inspire them. She couldn't save them!

She slapped the side of the post with the side of her hand, causing pain, enough to clear her head a little. Looking at the reddened flesh of her hand, a new thought occurred to her.

She already had; she had saved these people countless times. True, she hadn't been alone in her endeavors, but most of those little adventures were due to her prompting, her interference, her desire to help. She had closed rifts, fought off dangerous animals, killed a dragon, fed the hungry, secured blankets and supplies for the homeless, stopped a mage/templar war, rescued the mages from becoming slaves to Venetori masters, sealed the Breach…

And she'd done more than just physically affect their lives. She'd inspired courage while holding off advance troops until the trebuchets could bury an army of red lyrium tainted templars. She'd sacrificed herself and stalled Corypheus, gaining time to allow all these people to escape. And like Mother Giselle had just said: these people had watched her apparently die beneath an avalanche, only to miraculously reappear from out of the night.

On the other hand, she was only a girl, a lost and scared young woman who didn't know, couldn't understand, half of what everyone else around her took for granted. She was no miracle. She was no Herald. She was nothing, but a… but a…

But a person who saw what needed to be done, and did it, because she could, because—sometimes—she was the only one who could do it.

She looked down at the mark on her hand, the anchor as Corypheus called it. Solas had worked his magic, literally, and eased the discomfort once more. It only glowed now when she wanted it to, giving off a little bit of light at her command before growing dormant.

Maybe… just maybe… she was something more. Maybe… she was chosen. It had been a strange and unusual journey that put her at the Conclave, a long and unpredictable set of circumstances, and even if she couldn't remember them, there were probably more strange happenings that gave her the anchor instead of Corypheus. Who's to say it wasn't divine intervention, rather than accidental happenstance, that guided the unfathomable rat's nest of cause and effect? For everything to have happened, as it did, when it did, to whom it did, so precisely, so decisively, so perfectly…

She clenched her fist, squeezing her eyes shut against the futile tears. "I want to believe," she whispered, "I want to believe, but I don't know how…"

Her heart in crisis, her life—her very purpose—in a state of limbo, teetering on the edge of belief and non-belief, she opened her eyes and looked once more towards the advisors, her advisors. They were no longer arguing, but were no better off for it. Cassandra was leaning over a table, staring unseeingly at a map, her expression as dark as her hair. Near her paced Cullen, stalking back and forth, looking like he wanted to say something, but knowing he had nothing to say. A little further on sat Josephine, clipboard in hand, also staring at the words she had drawn without reading them. Leliana sat on the ground next to the bench, her arms on her knees, her hands dangling uselessly in the air.

These four people, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana… These four were, in Peredura's limited experience, the strongest and most faithful people she had yet met. These four people, hurt and angry and torn apart, were also in crisis. How could she hope to reach an answer, how could she hope to find her way, if they were also floundering?

The answer was unexpected. Mother Giselle started singing, a low and somber tune, each phrase sung as if it was a song unto itself. Peredura listened, her ears eagerly devouring the sounds. Never had she heard words like these; the emotions, the despair, echoing what was within her heart; the hope, the promise, echoing what was within her soul. All too soon, however, Mother Gisselle was done, her voice fading into the night, and Peredura found herself wishing—praying—there was more…

Another voice took up the next verse, a clear and soft soprano, flowing across the campsite like a mist. To Peredura's amazement, she saw it was Leliana who had lifted her head, raised her voice in song. The expression on her face changed, opened, and filled with something other than despair.

A few more voices joined in as the verse progressed. Then she heard a strong and heartbreaking tenor voice, wavering like a songbird, so beautiful it nearly made her soul want to take flight. She was shocked when she tracked the voice down to Cullen; of course he would know the hymn, having been a templar for so many years, but she never suspected he could sing with so much emotion.

The second verse ended and the third began, even more voices raised, refugees and recruits, mages and templars, seemingly everyone in the camp. Some of them stood up, moving forward, closer, congregating, joining in one common purpose. Suddenly tears were in her eyes again. Suddenly she felt the urge to join the song. Suddenly she wanted… she wanted…

She wanted to be a part of them, a part of their faith, a part of their lives, a part of their dreams.

Yet despite it all, questions lingered…

"How does one have faith?" she wondered, not knowing she had spoken out loud. The hymn drew to a close, the people looking more calm, her advisors less defensive. Even after the last echo had faded away, Peredura could hear little snippets of the tune, someone's favorite phrase or a whistled stanza, as everyone returned to what they had been doing before. Their faces were no longer burdened with despair, but at ease and reassured even in the face of their hopeless situation. She wanted to share in this feeling, but, "How does one ignore all the doubt?"

"Faith is made stronger by facing doubt," Mother Gisselle said softly as she walked past, "Untested, it is nothing."

Tested, Peredura thought to herself, staring unseeingly at the back of the retreating Mother. She had been tested. She had faced nothing but tests ever since the Conclave.

But in her life before, she had never been tested, never believed. Yes, she had heard of the Maker, but she had never been formally taught about Him, not while being a slave for a powerful magister with a lust for blood magic. She knew even less about the elven gods, though at one point there was an elf in the cell next to hers who constantly prayed to them. Every time the guards came for him he would scream, 'May the Dread Wolf take you!' Yet he was the one taken, and one day he was never returned.

Then one morning she'd woken up, free from her former life, with a mysterious power only she could use. Others called her Herald, Worship, Chosen, sent from the Maker to save them. Still others forced her to use this power, to prove herself worthy, prove herself the Herald, prove her self. And she had succeeded every time. She had grown more confident, more capable, more intelligent.

Was faith like that, she wondered. Did faith need challenges, tests, to be pushed beyond its limits, before it could grow?

Was the fact that she was wondering, doubting, feeling tested, proof that she had faith already?

"Peredura?" a voice called from a few yards away. She looked over her shoulder to see Solas, standing at a respectable distance, beckoning to her. "Excuse me, but could I speak with you. It is important."

She sighed, sensing whatever important matter he wanted to discuss would take up a great deal of her time. "I'll be right there," she acknowledged, setting aside her crisis of faith, and approached him.

* * *

Cullen had been about to approach Peredura and talk with her, and found himself feeling cheated when instead she turned to talk with Solas. He watched them walk away, side by side, their heads together like two errant children planning mischief…

His shaking hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. Damn, what was his problem, he demanded of himself. Here he was, Commander of the Inquisition forces, a position of power and respect, and under constant scrutiny from himself and Cassandra as well as everyone else. He had to remain above reproach. He had to remain loyal to the Inquisition. He had to remain focused on their cause.

Instead he had been ogling the Herald as if he was an un-blooded youth, thinking of some excuse to talk with her, yearning to be close enough to touch her. He thought she was on prescribed bedrest for another day, but she appeared to be recovering well, standing there and leaning against a post. Then again, there had been the slightest wrinkle in the middle of her brow, and her eyes hadn't been focused on anything in particular. And her lips had looked a little chapped, and she had hugged herself as if she was still cold after her ordeal. And he had the impulse to speak with her about something—anything—perhaps what it was that was troubling her. And he had wanted to put his arms around her to comfort her and warm her…

No! He could not… he would not… allow his attention to divide. He would not give in to those demons—those desires—that had haunted him for a decade. She was just a girl, yes a woman physically, but emotionally she had never had the chance to experience any sort of personal feelings towards anyone. He would not allow himself to take advantage of that, of her, of their situation.

He took a deep breath, the cold air helping to clear his head. It was merely the side effects of lyrium withdrawal, he told himself, growing more pronounced as he continued to decrease his dosage, wrecking havoc with his emotions, pulling apart pieces of different thoughts in his mind and shoving those pieces together at random, making him obsess…

"Commander, might I have a word with you?"

Leliana's distraction was both welcome and unwelcome. "Of course." Cullen squared his shoulders and faced her, forcing away thoughts of Peredura, preparing himself for whatever it was Leliana wished to discuss.

"We are in trouble."

Right, another disaster. Nothing better to distract him from unwarranted temptation than a worldwide disaster. Refusing to let the cynical attitude show, he asked, "What is it?"

Leliana looked around, but for the moment they were alone. "We are leaderless," she paused to let the words sink in, allowing them to fade away slowly. "We are leaderless, and this fact is destroying us far easier than anything Corypheus could do to us."

"Agreed," he nodded, concurring with but cutting short her dramatic prose, "But I see no solution at the moment. Both you and Cassandra were unsuccessful when you first sought a leader, and currently we're not in a position to continue that search. And there's no one here who could lead us…"

"I think there is someone," she broke over his words, cocking her hip and crossing her arms, "Someone right here in the camp, someone very obvious, someone who has been grossly and unfairly overlooked."

Cullen stared at her for a count of three before he could breathe. "You're not serious!" he scoffed, thinking he knew whom she meant: himself. Such an idea would be preposterous. Yes, he had been in a position of leadership before; he was in one now as Commander. But there was no possible way he could take on the role of Inquisitor, not while his loyalties remained in question, and they would remain in question so long as he used lyrium, leashing him indirectly to the Chantry…

"I am. Think of it. The people already look to her, whether for spiritual guidance due to her association with the Divine and Andraste, or out of gratitude after seeing all she personally has done for them. Also, she has proven herself wise if not formally educated, after having faced difficult situations and made hard decisions—some entirely on her own, some based on the advice of others—that have proven intuitive and beneficial for the Inquisition."

He blinked at her, at first thankful that she wasn't suggesting him after all, then confused to whom she was referring, then…

"She is dedicated to our cause, and not only because she has to be, thanks to the mark on her hand, but because she KNOWS it is the right thing to do." Leliana stepped far too close into his personal space, grabbing his arm, but he was too flummoxed to take note. "Peredura could lead us, lead the Inquisition. She could serve as Inquisitor. And, after all, it's not like she would be alone in the position. We would continue to advise her, guide her, help her make decisions in areas where she has no experience or knowledge. She could do this, Cullen. She may be the only one who can do this."

"Yes," he swallowed, "Quite. I see your point." Maker's breath, what would he do, with these rampant feelings of his, these unlooked-for and inappropriate and lustful desires, if Peredura was not only Herald, but Inquisitor?

"I would have your opinion, Commander. Will the people follow her? Not just those here, but the people of Orlais and Ferelden and elsewhere. Could she inspire others to join our cause? Could she lead us in defeating Corypheus?"

He looked away; he had to take a step back and look away, breaking out of Leliana's grip. Peredura as… Inquisitor? The idea was ludicrous. She was just a girl. An elven slave from Tevinter. She had no skills, no specializations or training that would put her first over another candidate. And yet… yet…

She had a certain charm about her, an ability that could win people over. She had gained the trust and loyalty of so many here in the camp, as well as out in the countryside. And among her most confidential friends, one found a diverse cross-section of society: a confessed Ben-Hassrath agent; a member of Red Jenny; an expatriate Tevinter Mage; a Gray Warden; an apostate mage as well as a pro-Circle mage… The list went on.

Leliana's idea could work. And it had the added benefit of helping to add another layer of deterrent between himself and his wayward desires, as it would be exceptionally unseemly for the Inquisitor and her Commander to fraternize personally.

"I think you already have your answer, Leliana," he began. "Look around us, at the people she's won over so far. Take the Iron Bull, a confessed Ben-Hassrath spy, yet I think he is more loyal now to her than his fellow qunari—he certainly takes a personal investment in her safety. There's also Blackwall; Gray Wardens are typically concerned with only the Blight and leave political matters alone, but he's vouched his self and the Gray Warden Treaties to the Inquisition, all at her behest. Even Dorian Pavus, a Tevinter mage, could very easily have washed his hands of us after informing on what his former mentor was up to in Redcliffe; he stays because of her and her alone. I could go on if you need me…"

"That will not be necessary," she tilted her head, a smile on her face, "At least, not yet. I feel the same as you, but I wanted another's opinion on the matter, before I brought it up with Cassandra. She can sometimes be… stubborn… to a new and unconventional idea."

"Ah, wonderful," he moaned, "You wanted to get me on your side, before you go up against Cassandra. Why do I feel like I just signed my death warrant?"

"It won't be that drastic, Cullen," Leliana tried to reassure him, "Yes, Cassandra can get carried away on occasion, but I think if we put forward a convincing enough argument…"

"I was joking."

"Oh." Leliana felt slightly embarrassed. In her own defense, she had never heard Cullen joke about anything, so her discomfited state—for being such a seasoned bard—could readily be excused. She looked around for a change in subject, something to smooth over the awkwardness, and saw Peredura. 

"What is she doing now?" Leliana sighed, staring at something over his shoulder. He looked to see Peredura racing across the camp to duck beneath the awning that sheltered her cot. She came back outside a moment later, her helmet in her hands, trying to hold the cheek guards out of the way so she could put it on.

"Herald!" Leliana called out as she strode forward, and Cullen had to snap out of his thoughts to catch up with her. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, Leliana, Cullen," she answered, her fumbling fingers finally able to stuff the helmet onto her head. To Cullen's eyes she seemed excited, happy, even hopeful, a marked contrast to her moody brooding earlier. "Solas and I are going scouting."

"Scouting?"

"Yes," she held the straps to her cheek guards, but didn't tie them yet, not wanting to hinder her voice. "He thinks he knows where we are, or at least, that there's a place not too far from here, something we could use as a sort of base. Probably to the north. But we're going to scout ahead, see if we can find it."

Cullen blinked at her.

"No doubt some sort of long lost elven settlement he's seen in one of his dreams. Are you… sure… about this?" Leliana pressed, leaning forward, her eyes calculating.

"No," Peredura shook her head, "But it's something, a possibility, and we've nothing else, have we? Not at the moment, anyway. If this place exists, well…" She reached out and took Leliana's hand, "I have to do something. I have to at least try, don't I?"

"Good luck, Madam Herald," Cullen offered. "Take plenty of supplies, and try to report back every other day."

She flashed him a smile, appreciative, warm, and enthusiastic. Then she raced off, tying the cheek guards in place, to rejoin Solas.

"Commander, are you sure that was wise, encouraging such reckless behavior?"

"You're the one wondering if she would make a good Inquisitor," he nodded in the direction she had disappeared. "There's your answer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, this chapter might seem weak and sappy and useless in places. But trust me, I'm setting something up. Just give me a little time…
> 
> Also, I really wanted to try writing an early flirt scene between Bull and Dorian. I just LOVE those two knuckleheads—they crack me up!


	10. The Suffering of Templars

It was awkward.

It was always awkward between them, and Cullen couldn’t understand why. Oh, he knew what it was on his end—for some unfathomable reason, his lyrium-withdrawal-induced-obsession had fixated on her, creating lustful urges wherever she was concerned. Uncomfortable, true, but manageable and easily avoided; all he had to do was keep at least eight inches of daylight between them. And though sometimes he spoke without thinking, he had been able to cover his slips of the tongue with a few made-up-on-the-spot explanations. Awkward, but sufficient.

Peredura, however, seemed ill at ease around him as well, and he could never figure out why she sometimes seemed hopeful, sometimes disappointed, sometimes angered, sometimes frustrated…

He supposed it must be due to her becoming Inquisitor, the extra stress in her life, giving her all those womanly emotions and what not.

Speaking of which, “There is a matter I should discuss with you, now that you are Inquisitor.”

Peredura took a deep breath, asking herself for the hundredth time what in the Fade was she doing! Originally she had wanted to speak with Cullen about the Inquisition forces, see if there was anything she needed to know, now that she was in charge. The title of Inquisitor fit on her shoulders like a bulky set of armor, but she was determined to learn her role and perform it to the best of her ability.

But she kept messing up. Instead of talking about how many they’d lost since Haven, she had said how glad she was that he had made it, having to quickly correct herself to include the others. Instead of discussing the repairs here at Skyhold, she had ended up talking about the view from the top of the battlements, and a silly fear that she might fall off the unfinished edge. Instead of asking if there were enough supplies, she had asked him if there was anything she could get for him, the next time she went to the Hinterlands or Val Royeaux.

Of course, Cullen hadn’t helped matters, either, leaving her without any clue as to what he was thinking or feeling or might have meant to say. When talking about surviving Haven, he had simply and ambiguously agreed. When talking about Skyhold, he had vowed that he would personally see to her safety. And just now, when talking about supplies, he had glanced off to the side, as if he was hiding something from her, or trying to decide whether or not to say it.

Maker, but this was frustrating! She wished… she wished… she wished she could just come out and say what she wanted to say, tell him how she felt, how she hoped he felt, but she had no idea what words to use. How does one tell another that they are, er, not in love, really, not yet, but definitely feeling something about another and hoping it may someday become… Oh, kaffas!

She could only stand there and pray, please, Maker, please, let Cullen say it first.

Then he spoke, “It is of a… personal nature.”

Peredura’s heart did a funny little flip, like it had forgotten how to beat in a regular fashion and had decided that flopping around like a fish out of water would work just as well as a steady thrub-dub. Oh, Maker, could her untutored prayer be answered this quickly, this easily?

Cullen saw the smile suddenly appear, pulling her bottom lip from her teeth, and yet again he had no idea what had caused the unexpected reaction.

“Oh, um, yes, of course… Cullen.”

Or why she had grown informal and used his name, rather than his title. She was beginning to fall into that category of giggly girls, the ones that liked to flock around him and flutter their eyes and talk of nonsense. He had never associated Peredura with that group of females; though uneducated and inexperienced, she had shown a remarkable and refreshing dearth of silliness. Until recently. He glanced towards the main gate, briefly entertaining the idea of making a run for it, but knew he’d have to persevere. “If we could step over this way,” he began, sweeping his hand to indicate a nearby corner of the courtyard that was empty of people, due in large part to the pile of rubble filling it. She nodded and walked beside him, thankfully quiet, but unfortunately with that strange smile on her face. He had admit, the smile did lighten her features, dim the harshness of her scarring, warm the deep brown of her eyes, but it’s unknowable cause made him feel itchy. When they had gone far enough, he stopped and turned so his back was to the wall, his hard hazel eyes sweeping the area to make sure they were alone. He cleared his throat and continued, “It has to do with our supplies: specifically, lyrium.”

“Lyrium?” she asked, the smile fading in the force of her confusion.

“Yes, as you know, we have several templars among our ranks.”

“Yourself included,” she added, eager to show she remembered their earlier conversations.

“Myself included,” he agreed, the hopeless feeling returning for a moment. “When we left Haven, most of us—the former templars—were unable to take the time to bring our kits. A few managed to snag one or two crates of lyrium from the supply tents during the retreat through the chantry, but it is only so much. I’m afraid, well, I’m afraid things are going to get… uncomfortable around here.”

“How so?” she asked. She had set aside the silliness, honestly curious as to this new plight and how it might effect the Inquisition.

“As you know, templars need lyrium; it’s where we get our power. Back at Haven, we were working on a supplier for lyrium, so we wouldn’t run out. Now, however…”

“Everything’s gone, from Haven, at least. You’ll have to start over, won’t you, working out a reliable supplier?”

“Exactly,” he nodded, grateful for her intuitive wit, quick at picking up on things. This was a sensitive subject for him—for any templar—and the less he had to explain, the better.

“But,” she paused to chew her lip, that tiny furrow forming between her brows.

Apparently, his relief was to be short-lived. “Yes?” he prompted her, wondering what was happening inside that funny little head of hers, thinking a reassuring hand on her shoulder might erase that furrow, or an unexpected kiss might free that lip… Instead his hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, his self-discipline pushing away the intimate impulses.

“But, the templars, their power, I mean, the mages here, in the Inquisition, they’re no longer rebelling. The mages are on our side, so we don’t need templars to be ready to use their power and suppress magic, not while the mages are with us.”

“True, the mages here in Skyhold seem willing enough. Keep in mind, though, these Venetori who have joined Corypheus are mages, aren’t they? I don’t think we’ll have to deal with them any time soon, and not here at Skyhold, so we should be able to secure a new supplier before they become a problem. But… there is that other consideration,” he looked at her and cocked an eyebrow, as if she knew what he was talking about.

“What other consideration?” she shook her head in confusion. The furrow on her brow deepened, and his hand was shaking so badly it almost rattled his sword in its sheath. Things were becoming awkward again, though for slightly different reasons. Yes, his impulses were running rampant, but she acted like she had no idea about templars…

It hit him the next moment. “Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know…” It was too easy to forget, that Peredura had not only grown up a slave, but in a differently country—a different culture. She looked human, with her thin elven body hidden beneath extra layers of clothing and without the normal elven ears. She also dressed in Ferelden style and spoke their common tongue, but she was in a lot of respects still very much a stranger in a strange land. And though they had talked about templars and lyrium, he supposed no one had ever spoken with her about the, er, darker side of lyrium use.

“Know what, Commander?” she asked in a very formal and firm tone, when he seemed too far lost in his thoughts.

“Oh. Right. Forgive me, Inquisitor, I meant no disrespect. Er, yes, lyrium. Well, it’s not something we discuss often, but there are disadvantages to using lyrium.” He paused to look around them, but they remained alone for the moment. “For starters, it is addictive. The more we take it, the more we have to keep taking it. I’d rather not go into the details, but withdrawal from lyrium is rather unpleasant, and ends in either madness or death, sometimes both.”

Peredura felt a coldness crawl over her skin, like cold and clammy hands that were trying to drag her back into the dark unknowing nothingness.

“With our supplies the way they are, the templars here at Skyhold are going to be running out of lyrium very soon, which means they will all be going into withdrawal.”

She swallowed, her expression very sober and serious. “Including you?”

He had to glance away before he answered, “Including me. You didn’t need to know this before, but as Inquisitor you do: that every templar here in Skyhold, in the Inquisition, is now a potential traitor.”

She stared at him for three full heartbeats before she had to shake her head. “No, I won’t accept that. Not every templar. Not you.”

“Yes! You must accept it. I am as much a risk as any other.” He realized he had somehow found her shoulders between his hands and had given her a small shake. Her large brown eyes had grown slightly moist, but she made no move to dislodge his hands. He did so himself, sucking in a deep breath. Damn, but he couldn’t make himself look at her, look into those eyes and see the hurt he had placed there. “Perhaps the greatest risk.”

“Cullen,” she wouldn’t let him pull back, taking hold of his mantle at his shoulder. “I don’t understand. Is lyrium withdrawal so violent? How could it make all of you traitors?”

“We… NEED… lyrium,” he was almost panting now, fighting conflicting urges, wanting to push her away, wanting to mold her body against his. “Being without it, being cut off from it, is like torture. That’s why, if a templar is kicked out of the Order, he’ll quickly resort to anything—any underhanded or illegal or dishonorable act—if it means he can get his hands on a cache of lyrium. But the Chantry… they keep the templars supplied with lyrium, those in the Order, that is. They control the Order, through that connection. The templars we have with us… they have had to rely on the Inquisition for lyrium. Same old chains, new master,” he muttered darkly.

She didn’t speak right away, nor did she remove her hand, and Maker forgive him but he didn’t want her to. “I see,” she finally whispered. “The bottom line is: templars need lyrium. If the Inquisition cannot provide lyrium, they always know they can return to the Order, to the Chantry.”

He nodded while he tried to find his voice. “They might not leave the Inquisition, but work as spies against us for the Chantry. As I said,” he finally found the courage to look back at her, “Any underhanded or illegal or dishonorable act. Nothing is beneath a templar who is cut off from lyrium. Nothing!”

She wanted to weep. She wanted to weep for Cullen, but she knew he would not appreciate it. She could understand his plight—the things she had once done, while wearing her own chains—but she didn’t want to admit to it. “I know Josephine is doing everything she can to arrange a new supplier for lyrium…”

“If she’s in time,” he interrupted, “Then all the better, and this worrying will be for naught. But if she cannot find anyone, if she cannot succeed before…”

“I understand,” she nodded. “Every templar in the Inquisition is a potential traitor. Even you.” She paused, letting go of his shoulder but remaining firmly planted in front of him, refusing to let him escape, not until she had asked one more question. “How long will the current supply of lyrium last?”

“Two weeks,” his voice sounded a little unsure even to himself. He dabbed at the sweat beading on his upper lip, “Perhaps longer. No more than a month, even with strict rationing. After that, you can expect to start seeing erratic behavior anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months.”

“Erratic behavior?” she pushed, and he saw his answers were only leading her to more questions. He should have made that break for it. “What sort of behavior? And are there other symptoms? I need to know, Cullen,” she lifted her hand again, but stopped when he pulled his shoulder back. “I need to know what to look for.”

She watched him look away again, as if he had trouble facing her—or facing something she kept reminding him of. Either way, he persevered, he kept answering her questions, he kept trying to make eye contact. “Withdrawal from lyrium causes mental… difficulties. Paranoia, disorientation, obsession, dementia, irritability, delusions, all these things begin to occur, as we start to lose touch with reality. Our… memories… our pasts come back to haunt us… our most terrifying nightmares… every dark and evil thought seems real and solid. They can’t be distinguished from what’s around us.”

It was as if speaking made it real. He saw them, those two demons, their bodies shifting into the forms of two young girls, just past Peredura’s shoulder, there in the courtyard and out in the open where everyone could see what he had been forced to endure…

“Cullen?” She did touch his shoulder this time, giving it a little tug for emphasis. He blinked and found her face, focused on that, and the vision faded away.

“Headaches,” he continued, “Sweating, insomnia, loss of appetite. It’s hard to say if these physical symptoms are caused by the withdrawal, or the other symptoms, but they are very likely to occur.”

She stared at him a moment longer, and he forced himself to hold her gaze; it was far safer than looking away. “How long?” she asked cryptically.

He tried to pretend he didn’t know what she meant, shaking his head slightly and forming a denial on his lips. She cut him off, not with words, but with a touch, her hand lifting from his shoulder to wipe at the sweat trickling down the side of his face.

She knew.

He started to answer, but his throat was tight and he had to clear it before he could continue. “I’ve been weaning myself off of it, decreasing my dosage a little at a time, since shortly after I joined the Inquisition. I thought it would be best if I could stop taking lyrium, if I could cut all ties to my templar past, as that would keep the Chantry from gaining any hold over me, and through me, the Inquisition or its forces. It’s been a few months now. I thought I could do it, that slowly cutting down would be better than quitting outright, that it would keep the side effects of my withdrawal to a minimum.” He gave a short and bitter laugh. “It appears I was mistaken. A decreased dosage has affected me the same as no dosage at all. I am already suffering withdrawal; I am already a risk.” His hand closed over hers of its own accord, pulling it away from his cheek but refusing to let go. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to put you in danger. I never wanted to fail the Inquisition!”

“You haven’t,” she assured him. “You haven’t done anything to harm or allow harm to come to us. Cullen, you’ve done more than anyone could expect of you; you’ve done more than any one person has for the Inquisition. If anything, you’ve done too much, taken on too many responsibilities, tried to do too many things at once.”

“It’s been necessary,” he countered, feeling a little calmer, though he couldn’t say quite why. Perhaps it was the simple fact of getting it off his chest. “And keeping busy helps.”

A mysterious little smile pulled at the unscarred corner of her mouth, sad and with affinity. “Fine. I won’t try to encourage you to ease up on your duties. And I’ll keep an eye on you for this, um, strange behavior.”

“Cassandra is already,” he assured her. “I, er, that is, when I started this, weaning myself off of lyrium, that very first day I asked Cassandra to keep an eye on me, to watch me closely and, if it becomes necessary—if I cannot control these symptoms—to remove me from command.”

“How serious are your symptoms? Are you in any pain?”

“I can endure it.”

She nodded, “Then we’ll trust your judgment.”

“Not mine,” he reminded her, “Cassandra’s.”

“Yours,” she refused to back down. “It was your judgment to choose Cassandra to watch you, back before the withdrawal started to affect you; that’s who’s judgment we will trust.”

He gave a rueful nod, “As you say.”

“And, Cullen, if you ever, that is, should you need to, um, talk, or if it gets too uncomfortable or anything…”

“I chose to do this, Inquisitor,” he finally realized he was holding her hand and let go, becoming formal once more, “Both to become a templar, and to leave it. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. And besides, it’s nothing you can relate to.”

She gave a small shake of her head and dropped her gaze; he had no idea…

“But… thank you, for the offer. And for understanding, for allowing this.”

Her eyes lifted to his once more, a gentle brown that was remarkable in its own way, for its purity and openness and acceptance. “Of course. If there’s nothing else…?”

“Not at present,” he shook his head.

“Then I’ll leave you to your work. Good day, Commander.”

“Inquisitor,” he gave a short bow. He wanted to look, Maker how he wanted to stare, but he would not let himself watch her walk away. He left her to meander through the courtyard, speaking with people at random, and returned to his desk.

It wasn’t much of a desk, just a hastily slapped together table with a few fist-sized rocks for paperweights, but it functioned reasonably well, at least until he could clear enough rubble to get access to one of the towers and turn that into his office. Peredura had tried to get him to take one of the many rooms inside the Keep as his office, someplace closer to the rest of them, but he declined. He needed to remain closer to his men. He needed the space, the separation, the air.

Separation… Maker’s breath! Cullen’s eyes grew wide in horror and his cheeks burst into flame as he suddenly realized what had happened. He had lost control this morning. All his careful little tricks and techniques, to keep him from showing his obsession for Peredura, to keep him from acting on those wanton impulses, had been all for nothing. He had acted unthinkingly towards her during their discussion regarding templars. If anyone had happened by… had seen them… standing in a secluded corner… holding hands… speaking softly yet fervently… it might seem… the impression it would give…

He gave a soft groan and put a hand to his forehead.

“Commander,” Josephine’s voice came from off to the side, “Are you all right? Should I send for…”

“It’s nothing,” he quickly denied, dropping his hand and forcing the heat from his face, “Just a headache. Have you made any progress yet, securing those supplies we spoke of?”

She tilted her head, looking like she didn’t believe him, but answered his question, “There’s a friend of a friend, who’s just arrived in Skyhold; he might be able to help us. I was on my way to speak with him when, oh,” she sighed, giving up trying to ignore his obviously uncomfortable state, reaching out to touch his armored forearm. “Cullen, are you unwell? Ever since Haven, you’ve been…”

“As I said,” he leaned away slightly, and her fingertips fell from his arm, “It’s just a headache. If there’s nothing you need from me, I shouldn’t keep you from your meeting.”

Josephine looked a little saddened by his response, but she allowed him to save face. “No, there’s nothing I needed. Excuse me, Commander, I’ll leave you to your work.”

Leave me to my work, he thought to himself as she walked away. That was the second time someone said that to him this morning. Was that how people saw him, he wondered, always working, never resting?

Would that be a bad thing?

Deciding it didn’t matter, he picked up a report from the growing stack of new ones, intending to make a dent in the pile before noon. He got most of the way to his goal, when he was interrupted by a loud—and joyous sounding—bark. The next moment, something large and dark came racing down the stepped hill next to his desk. Halfway down it jumped off the edge and knocked into Cullen’s shoulder before landing on the desk. The rickety piece of furniture collapsed under the force, sending reports and debris flying every which way. Cullen recovered from the blow and looked in astonishment at the scene at his feet. For the moment he ignored the scattered reports and splintered wood, deciding it would be more prudent to deal with the culprit first.

“Andraste preserve me! What do we have here, a disaster on four legs?”

He knelt down in front of the force of destruction, which was currently chasing its tail, a near impossible task considering the tail was no larger than a stub. It was mostly dark brown, with piebald patches of honey-blond in its fur. Its head would come up about to his knee—if it ever stood still—and it was half as wide as it was tall, with a thick and muscular body that spoke of unbridled muscle. It was indeed unbridled, its chewed through leather lead flapping from the collar around its neck.

“All right, you rogue, pay attention now. Sit!”

The mabari gave a happy bark. Letting its tail get away, it lunged at Cullen and tried to knock him down, slapping paws that seemed overlarge for the body squarely on his breastplate. He let out a grunt, more out of play than because he had been hurt, and rocked back on his heels, also playing along. Having distracted the dog and gotten it close enough, he deftly slipped a few fingers into its collar. “No, that was ‘Attack!’ not ‘Sit!’ Still, not a bad first effort.” The fingers of his other hand dug into a spot just behind its ear, scratching the short fur and eliciting a happy pant from the animal.

“Hey! Dog! Where could it have gotten to… oh, shit.” Varric’s voice floated downhill to where Cullen and the mabari were sitting in the middle of his ruined desk. Cullen looked up with an expectant expression, one eyebrow cocked, the animal secure in his hands. Varric had the decency to look a little taken aback. “Sorry, Curly, he, ah, got off his lead.”

“I noticed.”

“Varric, did you find him? Oh!” Peredura came racing up beside the dwarf, stopping suddenly when she saw what had happened. “Oh, no, Commander, I, I’m sorry, I had just, I mean, we were just standing around, and talking with the merchant who brought him, and he must’ve, well, chewed through his lead, and I didn’t realize right away, and, oh…” her voice trailed away under the force of Cullen’s glare. “I’ll just help you clean up the mess.”

“Don’t bother,” he sighed as she scampered down the steps, “I can manage. Just keep this… one-hound-army out of my hair.” He immediately turned to pierce Varric with his glare, “Don’t say it.”

“Ah, come on,” Varric’s voice was full of humor as he sauntered down after Peredura, “How can you expect me to not say it, when you set yourself up so beautifully?”

Cullen grunted and looked away. “Where did this beast come from? You said a merchant brought him?”

“Yes,” Peredura nodded, “An acquaintance of Varric’s. He, ah,” her voice suddenly trailed away, unsure how much she should say about it.

“He’s an old friend out of Kirkwall,” Varric supplied, leaning over to help her tie what remained of the lead around the dog’s collar. “I asked him to find a dog for the Inquisitor here. Actually,” he paused to laugh and duck when the mabari tried to lick his face, “Easy, boy. Actually, I had asked for the dog a few months ago, and my friend had a little trouble tracking down a breeder, and then tracking us down from Haven, but he finally made it. And now Peredura has a dog all of her own to love and care for.”

“Speaking of caring for him,” Cullen tilted his head, studying the animal’s anxious behavior, “You should probably walk him around a bit, preferably away from any high traffic areas.”

“What? Oh.” Peredura saw the mabari sniffing at a nearby rock and about to lift his leg. “No, hey, come on, boy, let’s go over here. I know a much better place for that.”

The two men watched her walk the hound a little ways down the path before stepping off to the side by some overgrown bushes. “You bought it for her.” Cullen’s words weren’t so much a question as a statement wanting confirmation.

“Well,” Varric rubbed at the back of his neck, “Sure, I mean, back then Peredura was pretty timid and introverted and didn’t have much in the way of friends. And, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, you know, get her a dog, someone to keep her company, someone she could tell her secrets to, and maybe give her a bit of self-confidence, you know, with training him and the like. Maybe she doesn’t need that quite so much anymore, but you gotta admit, they look good together, the Inquisitor and her dog.”

Cullen shook his head. “That’s not a dog, Varric.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s a mabari.”

He shrugged, “What’s the difference? It’s got four legs and a tail, well, a bit of a tail.”

“So does a hamster,” Cullen countered. “But seriously, Varric, a dog is one thing, but a mabari…”

“What? Hawke had one, back in the day. Nice enough fellow, intelligent, good in a fight…”

“And how big was it?” Cullen felt a little satisfaction as Varric’s face fell. “Exactly. That mabari is just a puppy right now. Think of what it’ll be like, fully grown, and as tall as you. An animal that size would, well, if he ever got wind of a squirrel while on his lead, he’d pull the poor girl off her feet.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

It was Peredura’s voice that spoke. Both men had been facing each other, not exactly arguing but intensely discussing, so she had been able to return to them unnoticed. The picture he painted was dark; what would happen to the Inquisition, if the Inquisitor got her neck snapped in an accident with her pet? “I suppose, Varric, it would be a bit much for someone like me. After all, I’ve never had a dog before, or a mabari, or whatever… a pet, anyway! Just…” she bit her lip, not wanting to give the mabari up, but thinking it would be best for her, and the animal.

The mabari suddenly looked up at her and whined sympathetically.

Cullen closed his eyes and brought a hand to his temple. “Andraste watch over fools, children, and drunkards.” He opened his eyes to look at the hound, “Or in this case, mabari.”

He gave an answering bark.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen began, shoulders back and his shield of formality in place, “I have come to the conclusion that it is a good idea for you to keep the mabari.”

“It is…?” she asked, so hopeful, her brown eyes wide and open and oh so deep he wanted to fall in…

“Yes,” he gripped the pommel of his sword and took a steadying breath. “Yes, it is. He may grow into a formidable size, but with the proper training, I think he would be an excellent companion for you. Large. Protective. Strong. Mabari have been known to fight to the death for their partners, and even in some cases, avenge them.”

“Partners?” she wondered at the term. She hadn't wanted to be a master to anyone, even a pet, but if she could think of herself and the dog as equals or friends, she would feel loads better.

“Partners. Don’t think of this so much as ‘owner’ and ‘pet;’ rather think of yourselves as ‘partners.’ You’ll both be much better off.”

She wanted to give in and agree, he could see it on her face, but she also knew she had to make sure the decision would not negatively impact the Inquisition. “With the proper training, you said. I’m not sure I’d know how, I mean, I’ve never trained a mabari, and I have a lot of other duties…”

“I could help train him, I suppose, at least get the two of you started,” Cullen offered, only a little reluctantly.

“You… you would be willing?”

Her voice was so hopeful, her smile on the verge of bursting like a sunrise, he couldn’t turn her down if he wanted. “We are both Ferelden, the breed and I. And he’s not the first mabari I’ve met. And I do know a bit about training. Yes, I could train him for you, teach him some basic commands, a little fighting. But you’ll have to do the bulk of the training,” he shook his finger at her. “I can show you how but, where mabari are concerned, it would be best for his partner to train him.”

“I understand,” she was nodding fervently, “I promise, I’ll train him every day I’m here in Skyhold. Oh! I almost forgot.”

“What is it now?” He didn’t want to, but he had to ask, her face had so suddenly turned downcast.

“I was supposed to leave tomorrow, with The Iron Bull and his Chargers. They’re going to Haven, to search the ruins for anything salvageable and look for survivors, that sort of thing. I… I suppose I’ll have to stay here, for a bit, just until we, my partner and I,” she gave the mabari a little grin, and he answered with a happy look, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and dripping drool on her boot, “Until his training starts, I suppose I shouldn’t leave him…”

“I can watch him for you, too,” Cullen sighed. “Maker knows, my duties keep me here at Skyhold, while you have to do a lot of traveling. Just,” he held up his hand when she looked like she was about to jump into his arms and give him a hug, “Get him a proper lead. Take him inside, down to the blacksmith, see if Harritt can fashion a chain or something more substantial for… by the way, have you named him, yet?”

“Oh, well, sort of, I was thinking of calling him, um, I suppose it sounds kinda silly…”

“He’s your dog, er, mabari,” Varric encouraged her, “Name him what you want.”

“Well, I thought it would sound nice, especially if he can be taught to fight, to be in the middle of a battle and call out, Fear, attack!”

The mabari gave a bark and lunged at Cullen, knocking into the side of his knees. He gave an honest grunt this time and staggered while Peredura tried to pick up the lead that had slipped from her grasp.

“Fear, huh?” Varric mused, watching them struggle with a happily barking puppy who was energetically staying just out of Peredura’s reach, while enthusiastically wrapping Cullen’s ankles in the lead. “I suppose it’s better than Panic. Wouldn’t want to yell panic attack in the middle of a fight.”

“It seems he would agree,” Cullen deadpanned, having finally gotten the mabari to sit still long enough to free himself. “Well, then, Fear it is. Now,” he placed the end of the leather leash securely into her hands, “Take him inside before he causes any more mischief. And keep a firm grip on him.”

“Yes, Commander,” she readily agreed and started to lead the hound away. She paused after a few steps, glancing shyly over her shoulder, one deep brown eye peeking at him through her overgrown bangs. It was a look he hadn’t seen for a while, and he discovered he had missed it. “And, thank you.”

Then she and Fear were gone.

“I wonder if there’s a metaphor in there somewhere,” Varric hummed, “Fear is her constant companion.”

“Or she has command of her fear,” Cullen supplied, coming back to himself. “Whatever the reason, they both seemed to like the name.”

“I was kind of wondering, Curly, why you changed your mind so suddenly. I thought you were going to discourage her from keeping the dog, I mean, hound.”

“I meant to,” he sighed, “But then I saw the mabari was showing signs of already imprinting on her. They looked to be sharing some sort of connection, at any rate. Besides, he will make a good protector, a more constant and alert bodyguard than any templar, considering we’ve been unable to find the assassin that was after her.”

“You think he’s still out there?” Varric wondered. “I thought, well, since there hasn’t been an attempt on her life since, what, Redcliffe? Earlier? I thought maybe he’d given up. Maybe even gotten himself killed when we lost Haven.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Cullen said, his voice growing dark. “We’ve never found him, never even seen him, so there’s no way to know if he’s dead or given up or still out there. And I for one won’t rest easy until I see his dead body lying at my feet.”

“That’s… a bit overzealous,” Varric looked at him askance.

Before Cullen could think of an excuse for his overreaction, Josephine came up to them. “Commander! Oh, I have good news, for a change. Varric, thank you, again, for introducing us. That merchant friend of yours, he’s going to be able to arrange for a steady supply of lyrium. Isn’t that wonderful, Commander? It’ll take a few weeks to set up, perhaps a month or more, but it will happen.”

“That… is good to hear, Ambassador. Now, if you two will excuse me, I have a mess to clean up.”

“Oh!” Josephine finally noticed the debris around them. “What happened here? It looks like a tornado swept through.”

“No, just Fear.”

“Fear?”

“Come on, Ruffles, let’s leave the Commander to his work. I’ll explain it while we walk.”

Cullen didn’t pay them any attention as they left, too focused on his own thoughts. It was good news, finding a reliable source of lyrium for the templars in their ranks. Morale will improve once the news got around, and make it easier for them to face any upcoming shortages. He could not relax, however. One of his reasons for encouraging Peredura to keep the hound was because of their conversation that morning, that she may not be able to rely upon and trust the templars here—even those chosen to be her honor guard. Thankfully they had avoided this current disaster due to Varric's merchant friend, but there could be others in the future, and he knew he’d have to stay on guard for any indication of dissension in the ranks. Yet Fear would never betray her.

If he had watched Varric and Josephine walk away, he might have noticed Peredura hovering above him, staring at him. She stood on the landing just in front of the Keep, Fear panting at her side, her eyes studying Cullen. She had felt nervous during their conversation just now, not only because of the mess her mabari had made of his ‘office,’ but because she kept thinking about their conversation that morning. She couldn’t fight the impulse to look for those signs he spoke of, for the sweating and the paranoia and the loss of touch with reality…

But he appeared normal. In fact, he seemed more relaxed and more open than she had seen him in a long time. She wondered if it might be because of the mabari, and reached down to scratch his head. Fear leaned into the touch, nudging her leg. “Right. We were getting you a stronger lead, weren’t we. Come on, Fear, let’s go visit Master Harritt. You’ll have plenty of time to play with Cullen over the next week.”

He gave a bark in answer, and to her ears, it sounded like he was looking forward to it. 

* * *

“Inquisitor! Might I have a word?”

Peredura didn’t want to, but she stopped and turned back to face the Keep. She had just spent ten days away from Skyhold, ten days away from Cullen and her new mabari puppy, and she wanted nothing more right then than to see how they were getting along and tell Cullen what she had brought back…

But Dorian was strolling towards her, well, sauntering, perhaps strutting. Whatever it was, she pushed aside her personal desires and put a smile on her face. “Of course. What can I help you with?”

“Oh, nothing important. I was just looking for some idle chatter. I heard you were back from Haven, and wanted to find out how that went, Inquisitor.” He cocked an elbow and leaned against the low wall on the side of the walkway.

“Dorian,” she sighed, feeling her cheeks burn a little, “You don’t have to call me Inquisitor, not while we’re alone, anyway.”

“Ah, but we are never very far from your admirers,” he gestured. They were on the walkway between the Keep and the battlements, the shortest route to Cullen’s tower, she’d been told. And though the walkway was high above the courtyard, it was still within view of anyone and everyone below them. She glanced, a little nervously, and saw there were at least a score of people down there, some of whom were looking upwards at them. “Best to keep up appearances, wouldn’t you say?”

“Appearances,” she repeated, “I doubt anyone could make me out from down there, not enough to see that I’m the Inquisitor.”

“You’re still wearing your armor,” he pointed out, flicking his fingers at the metal on her helmet, as well as the metal fastenings on his own clothing. “Shiny bits like that attract attention.”

She made a small face. “Point taken.” She pulled off her helmet, letting it dangle from her hand and out of sight from her would-be audience. “Better?”

He studied her face closely, the look on his face making her feel uncomfortable. “Yes. Peredura, there was something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Her heart stuttered a beat, and she fervently prayed he wasn’t about to ask what she feared he was about to ask. “Of course.” Amazingly, her voice didn’t squeak.

“Have we…” he leaned forwards and away from the wall, “Have we ever met? It’s just that you somehow look familiar to me.”

She shrugged, “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

Dorian gave a bark of laughter at that. “Hardly. No offense, but a face like yours does stand out in a crowd. That’s why this is bothering me. I feel I should know you from somewhere, but I can’t for the life of me remember ever meeting anyone like you. I don’t suppose you have a sister or a cousin, someone who looks like you, but without the scars, someone who might have traveled to Tevinter and…”

“I have no family,” she quickly interrupted. “And no, Dorian, I’ve never met you before Redcliffe. You’re not exactly easy to forget, either, but for different reasons.” It wasn’t a lie precisely, as she and Dorian were never introduced, so they technically had never ‘met.’ She threw the flattery in at the end to try to distract him.

It worked. “Well, I can’t deny that. Still, it’s been bothering me, you understand, that’s why I had to ask.”

“I understand. Was there anything else? I’d like to check in on Cullen and my puppy.”

“Ah, yes,” his blue eyes sparkled with mirth, “Fear. Wonderful mutt you have there. It found its way into the library one afternoon and chewed up my favorite cushion.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one…” She reached out and set a hand on his forearm.

“Don’t bother; I‘ve already replaced it.” He glanced over her shoulder and added very quietly, “Don’t look now, but someone is watching us.” Peredura couldn’t help herself; she had to look. Before she could turn her head, however, his hand was there, holding on to her, blocking her view. “I said, don’t look.”

“Is it Cullen?” she stopped chewing her lip long enough to ask.

“No, it’s the Imperial Archon. Yes, of course it’s Cullen. How is it going between you two, by the way? Any progress?”

She shook her head, and his hand fell to her shoulder. “No. None. I don’t know, Dorian, maybe you were right, what you said before. Maybe that other Cullen from the future invented his feelings for me, because this Cullen doesn’t have any.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he assured her, but the reason why escaped her notice. She couldn’t see the dark look Cullen was giving them, the way his hand gripped the frame of the tower door. Dorian smiled as he watched his reactions, before he brought his attention back to Peredura. “Let’s look at this from his perspective.”

“His perspective?”

“Yes. Commander Cullen is a military man, isn’t he? So, approach this as you would a battle. Lay siege to his heart, dear lady. Surround it with your army, cut off all its supplies and communications, beat against its walls with your trebuchets.” He spoke softly, so his words wouldn’t carry to Cullen, but theatrically enough to make it apparent he was trying to impress Peredura. As he hoped she would, she laughed, a merry sound, loud and clear enough to reach Cullen’s ears.

Peredura had no idea Cullen was still listening in. She was caught up in the vision, picturing the scene in her mind so vividly, Cullen surrounded by tiny trebuchets throwing kisses at his chest. “You make it sound easy, when you put it like that,” she managed to calm herself and grow serious, “But I don’t think I have any trebuchets powerful enough to take down those walls.”

“Don’t give up. I’m certain he has some sort of feelings towards you.”

“How? How can you be so sure? Every time I talk with him, try to talk with him about anything other than work, he starts looking around for the nearest exit.”

“Exactly. For a man who can face down an army of red lyrium infected templars and not break a sweat, he easily gets himself flummoxed by a certain pair of pretty brown eyes.” Again he touched her cheek, a caring gesture, and tried not to gloat when he saw Cullen turn on his heel and stalk back into his tower.

“Now I know you’re teasing me,” she rolled her eyes.

Dorian gave her a wink. “I think you’re wearing him down, my dear Inquisitor. Keep at it.”

“Keep at what?”

“Keep talking with him,” Dorian explained, “Even if it’s just about work. Or that hound of yours; there’s a good place to start.”

“Speaking of which,” her wide eyes grew even wider, “I was on my way to pick up Fear. I should get going.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll not keep you from that, er, mongrel.”

“He’s a mabari,” she said as she turned away, ending up speaking over her shoulder, “A hound, and a very intelligent animal. And I’ll tell him to eat something else of yours if you’re not nicer towards him.”

She walked away, her shoulders back, her chin up, her helmet swinging from one hand. She liked Dorian, she truly did, but sometimes his teasing went too far. The short, brisk walk towards the door of Cullen’s tower did nothing to cool her temper. She pushed the door open with preamble or a knock, thinking she’d apologize if there was a need…

But Cullen wasn’t there. A soldier was, his face a little flushed, as he stood beside the desk and tried not to shift his feet. “Begging your pardon, Inquisitor,” he noticed the insignia on her shoulder, something Cassandra suggested she wear so the troops would know her, “But if you’re looking for the Commander, he isn’t here. He went to speak with Seeker Pentaghast.”

She looked at him closely. “Are you all right, soldier?”

“Yes, Ser, I, that is, I came here to deliver a report, but the Commander was just leaving, so he told me to wait here, but I have to, er, I need to use, um, you know.”

She managed to keep from rolling her eyes this time. “Very well, soldier. Deliver your report to me, and I’ll see that he gets it.”

“Oh, thank you, Ser, thank you! Ah, the eastern watch reports all clear. Excuse me, Inquisitor.”

“Dismissed,” she nodded. As she watched the soldier race off to find the privy, she wondered why Cullen hadn’t taken the time to listen to his report. Surely whatever business he suddenly had with Cassandra could have waited for thirty seconds.

She sighed and left the tower, thinking she’d probably find Cassandra down by the practice dummies, in the far corner of the grounds. As it turned out, one of the practicing soldiers directed her to look for Cassandra and Cullen in the nearby armory. She opened the door and stepped into a scene she was never meant to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slight spoiler alert* Okay, I just wanna go on the record and say this: being a ‘dog person’ myself, I had always intended for Peredura to get a mabari. But, well, after playing a particular DLC, it fits in even better, right? ;)
> 
> Sorry, Pip…


	11. Chains (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I meant to have this next section out sooner, but life’s been shitty lately. I did vent my angst into the story, but my two-part chapter became three, so I miiiiiiiiiight have gone a bit overboard. IDK…  
> The following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.

Cullen was pacing. He was agitated and over-energized. He knew it, but it was too hard to control it, to fight against it any longer. “It’s gotten out of hand, Cassandra. You need to find a new Commander. You need to replace me! Before I do something foolish!”

“What?” she asked, standing and watching him pace around the room like a caged lion. He had come to her, demanding she allow him to step down. She had stated that she didn’t think it was necessary, and reminded him that he swore to adhere to her judgment, but it didn’t look like she was going to be able to talk him down from whatever precipice he was teetering on. Yet she had to try, because he had to succeed; too many others needed him to succeed. “What foolish act are you afraid of committing?”

He stopped suddenly, looking up at her with a stricken face. Oh, Blessed Andraste preserve him, but he couldn’t admit it, not to her, not to anyone. He could hardly admit it to himself, that his obsession had fixated on Peredura, that he felt jealousy whenever he saw her with another man. He had no right to feel this way, no cause other than his withdrawal.

Then his eyes were drawn to the opened door, and as if conjured by his obsession, there she stood framed in the doorway. Even silhouetted from behind by bright daylight, he knew it was her, her form and style of movement indelibly imprinted on his heart. She walked in slowly, cautiously, as if she realized she was intruding on a private matter. Fear was sitting in the corner, and when he saw her he gave a happy bark in greeting and bounded up to her side.

Cullen was defeated. Undone. Destroyed by a mere slip of a girl with gentle brown eyes and a gentler soul. Cassandra would continue to refuse to relieve him of command, and he would eventually give in to those wrong, lustful impulses. Then Cassandra would be forced to kill him. He had failed. Failed the Inquisition. Failed Cassandra. Failed Peredura. “Forgive me,” he said softly, begging for absolution for those indefensible acts he was doomed to commit. He was unable to look Peredura in the eye as he left the building.

He was halfway back to his office before he realized Fear was no longer at his side. He had been training the hound almost constantly, teaching him to sit and stay and heel, all the basic commands, and Fear had learned very quickly. He was planning on starting Fear’s combat training in a few days, but now with Peredura back, he supposed he should have her do it.

He didn’t resent Fear’s desertion of him in favor of his partner—it was only natural for the mabari to return to Peredura—but his side felt cold and empty without the hound there.

His thoughts continued down their lonely path after he reached his office. He didn’t notice the missing soldier, hardly remembering there had been someone who wanted to give a report. All he could think about was seeing her, standing in the middle of the walkway in the bright afternoon daylight, laughing with Dorian and so close together they might have been…

Both his hands curled into fists.

One day, he thought bitterly to himself. He had been completely off of lyrium for a little more than one whole day before everything got out of hand. Blessed Andraste, but how could he expect to continue the rest of his life like this? How could he serve the Inquisition, how could he command their forces, if he couldn’t command his own self?

He opened his top desk drawer and reached inside, taking out his lyrium kit. There was still some in the vial, he could take it, just a little bit, just enough to take the edge off of the shaking, the obsessing, the urges. He opened the lid and looked inside, his eyes wanting to water at the blue glow coming off of the lyrium. The color had always seemed so calming to him, so welcomed, so right—now it made him feel weak and worthless and pitiable.

All his childhood—all his life!—he had wanted nothing more than to be a templar, to serve the Chantry and protect the people and the mages from themselves.

Now he had been asked to set aside his wants, his desires, his dreams. Now he felt he had been called to a higher purpose. Now he was trying to do the Maker’s will, selflessly serve the Inquisition…

He had given everything to the Chantry! He should give even more to the Inquisition, but the Chantry already had it all. There was nothing left, nothing but an empty husk of a man.

Like an empty vial of lyrium.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t give in… he couldn’t quit now… he had sworn himself to the Inquisition… he should give them nothing less than he gave the Chantry… but the chains of lyrium addiction were too strong to break… not on his own… the withdrawal affecting him… cheapening his devotion… tempting his resolve…

If he went back on the lyrium, at least he could work with a clear head, though with divided loyalties.

There was no answer, no solution, no way out of his predicament. And it all came back to lyrium, to the tiny vial that mocked him, that defeated him. Rage boiled up inside him, stronger than ever due to his withdrawal symptoms. In a rare moment of self-indulgence, he picked up the kit and threw it across the room, venting his anger, his frustration, his impotence with a feral snarl…

…and nearly braining the Inquisitor in the process.

“Maker’s breath! I… I didn’t hear you enter. I…” Instantly his anger evaporated. He saw the startled look on her face, the open and vulnerable and scared expression, and knew he had been the sole cause of giving her such grief. He had no excuse, no reason that could explain his actions. He could only ask, “Forgive me.”

“It’s worse, isn’t it?” She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, giving them some semblance of privacy. Fear padded up to him on his oversized paws to nudge his hand.

He didn’t need to ask her to clarify her question; he already knew she was talking about his withdrawal. “It is,” he admitted, giving Fear a few calming pats on his head.

“I got back from Haven today,” she said, and then wanted to kick herself. That was twice in as many minutes that she had stated the obvious. Thankfully he didn’t notice. Or perhaps it was a bad sign he didn’t notice. She watched him standing there, staring at her mabari, either unable or unwilling to look her in the eye. “I came by here earlier, but a soldier told me you had just stepped out. He says the eastern watch is clear, by the way. But, anyway, I wanted to tell you, in Haven we found several mostly-intact crates of lyrium buried beneath the debris. I brought back a few with me; the Chargers will bring back the rest by the start of next week.”

“That’s…” he almost lifted his head, but in the next moment dropped his gaze again, “The other templars will be glad to hear that. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“The others,” she looked from him to the shattered kit and back. She had picked apart his sentence carefully, reading far more into his current situation than he had intended, “But not you. You’ve taken yourself completely off of lyrium, haven’t you?”

He would not allow himself to lie to her. He nodded, starting to come around his desk, intending to clean up the broken kit. “I… aargh!” whatever he meant to say was lost beneath a groan. He suddenly felt weak, his knees buckling, his vision growing dark, his body bursting with cold sweat, his armor feeling heavy and awkward on his shoulders. His hand found something stable and solid, and he leaned against it, blinking to clear his vision, panting to clear his mind. He fought off the dizzy spell just in time to see her coming towards him, and managed to hold up a hand, keeping her at bay, refusing her assistance. “I took my last dose yesterday morning. I will not… should not… take another… but…”

Fear whimpered, looking somewhat anxious, wanting to return to Peredura’s side but not wanting to leave Cullen when he knew Cullen needed help.

She studied the Commander, seeing the far too familiar signs. “Sweating,” she said, “Stomach is tight, like you’re going to vomit. Perhaps you already have.” She saw his head twitch, like he was about to answer, but she had more she wanted to say. “Muscles aching, trembling, weak. It gets better, or rather easier to ignore as the day goes on, as you have more things to distract you. But when you’re alone, when it gets too quiet…”

“Stop!” he commanded, that rage flaring into life again, finally cutting off her words. Immediately afterwards he realized he had yelled at the Inquisitor. “Peredura, I… I shouldn’t have… shouted, I… I’m sorry…”

She set her hands on her hips, feeling a little frustrated with him when he turned away again. He obviously didn’t comprehend what she was trying to say, so she decided to be blunt. “Cullen, I understand. I know what you’re going through.”

“No, you don’t,” he denied, shaking his head. “You have no idea. You can’t! Nor should you. Nor would I want you to.” Mercurially he turned back to her, “You need to relieve me of command! Cassandra won’t. She should, she knows she should, but she refuses, and I can’t… I can’t do this… I can’t continue to walk the edge… knowing I’m going to eventually fail…” He took three steps and gripped her by the shoulders. “Relieve me of command, I beg you, before I do something that ruins us all!”

“Cassandra thinks you can still do this…”

His hands fell from her, his face downcast. “I thought I could. I thought I should. I needed to. But I see now. It cannot be done. Not when so much hangs in the balance. Perhaps, if it was just me who was affected by this decision… but not with the whole of the Inquisition relying on me…”

Peredura felt for him. She knew the physical difficulties he was having were bad, and that the mental difficulties were far worse, far more dangerous, far more damaging. She could help him, but she wasn’t sure she could convince him of that fact. All she could do, was make the offer and let him make up his mind. “What if it was just you?” She grabbed his arms before he could get away. “What do you want, Cullen, for yourself?” She ducked her head around until she was back within his vision. “Do you want to start taking lyrium again?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block her out of his mind, but he couldn’t, her question echoing within his head, his heart, his soul. “I…” he found himself unable to speak, knowing what he should say, knowing what he wanted to say. He looked back at her; he knew he needed help, any help, even hers. Grasping at the tenuous lifeline she had thrown him, he answered honestly, “No.”

She relaxed, just a little, not enough to allow him to escape, but enough to tell him he had answered correctly. “I can help you get through this.”

He raised an eyebrow, slightly disbelievingly, how could she have any idea…

“But I’ll leave it up to you.” She let go of his arms and took a step back. “It’s getting late. Meet me, after supper, in my chambers.”

“Your chambers…?”

“I’m serious, Cullen. I can help, but only if you want my help. Otherwise, don’t bother to show. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to visit Harritt, see if he finished the lead for Fear. Come on, boy.”

“He… doesn’t need it now,” Cullen said as she started walking away, her mabari in tow. “I’ve already trained Fear to respond to basic commands. Just tell him to ‘heel,’ and he will remain by your side.”

She paused at the door that led to the walkway. She glanced over her shoulder at him, that one brown eye peeking through her bangs, giving him that look that made his heart ache. “It’s not for Fear,” she answered cryptically, and then she was gone.

* * *

“I should not be doing this,” Cullen said to himself. Damn, but this felt wrong, strange, highly inappropriate. It was late, a good three hours after supper, but he had had work to do. He had not been stalling, or so he told himself. But he was here, having slipped through the main hall while it was mostly empty, and climbed the dark and lonely stairs with only the moonlight to show the way. Now he stood outside the door to Peredura’s chambers and lifted his hand to knock.

He intended the sound to be quiet, soft, but it echoed loudly to his ears, reverberating through the empty tower beneath him. He wondered if it was as loud within her chambers, if she had given up on him and gone to bed and the knock woke her from her dreams. He felt guilty, imagining he had kept her waiting, turned her hope into disappointment as she gave up and got ready for bed, and managed to wake her right after she fell asleep…

The door opened. Peredura stood there, still dressed in the clothing she’d worn under her armor earlier, her expression a careful neutrality. Wordlessly she stepped aside and opened the door further, inviting him inside.

Yes, he should not be doing this, but it was too late to run away now. He squared his shoulders and stepped across the threshold, feeling like he was climbing to the gallows as he climbed the last flight of stairs to her chambers. The going was tough, as his body was already weakened by the long day and the aches and then the ascent through the tower. He had to pause at the top, out of breath, his muscles trembling with fatigue, giving him an opportunity to look around.

He didn’t know what he expected to find, what sort of furniture she’d have or if there would be personal items strewn about the room, but he was mildly impressed with what was there. It was a large chamber, mostly one room, with lots of open space in the middle. Along the railing at the side of the stairs towards his left was a low couch, small tables with lamps on either end. Beyond that on the side wall was the bed, a simple and solid piece of furniture covered with a thick comforter. In the far corner was a small chest of drawers with a mannequin next to it that held her armor.

On the wall opposite the stairs he saw a large glass door that opened onto a balcony. The wall to his right also held a balcony, a larger one, with two doors opening onto it. Between these two doors was a fair-sized hearth, a fire lit and cracking merrily in the chilly night air. In front of the fire was a rug, nearly covered by Fear; his eyes lifted and his ears perked at the sight of Cullen, but otherwise the mabari remained dozing where he was warm and comfortable.

In the far corner, nestled between the two balconies, was a cozy little office area, complete with bookshelves—which were nearly empty—and a large desk. She had been sitting there while waiting for him, he realized, seeing a stack of clean paper in one corner, an opened book in the middle, a charcoal stylus and several used sheets spread out around the book.

Peredura saw where he was looking and felt her cheeks start to burn. “Excuse me,” she muttered, squeezing around him to race to the desk, snapping the book closed and trying to get the papers stacked and out of sight before he came too close. “I had, um, some work I had to do, and, ah, I was working…”

Cullen had come up behind her, surprisingly quiet for a man in armor, and picked up one of the sheets. It was full of carefully drawn letters, the handwriting unschooled but determined, with a lot of mistakes scratched out. “At least you don’t draw your ‘s’ backwards. Took me forever to get that down.”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t look at him, as she pulled the paper from his fingers.

“There’s no reason to feel ashamed,” he said, still trying to ease her discomfort. “There are a lot of adults who can’t read or write. And I imagine you were never taught, as a slave, were you?”

She shook her head, tapping the sheets into an orderly stack before walking behind her desk to hide them in a drawer.

“Are you… trying to teach yourself, or do you have someone helping you?”

She slowly straightened up, her long brown hair falling over her shoulder and effectively hiding her embarrassment. “Myself. I, ah, Mother Giselle gave me a book of hymns, because I asked her about a particular song, and, well, she didn’t know I couldn’t read…” her voice trailed away, her fingertips touching the bound book.

He could imagine that lip being chewed, and had to fight the impulse to free it. Maker, what was he doing here, he chastised himself, but her words continued.

“I haven’t been able to make any sense of it, but at least I’ve been able to practice drawing the letters.” She picked up the book and placed it on the bookshelf

“Perhaps I could help,” he found himself offering, then decided it could be a good idea. “After you’re done helping me, that is, I could teach you how to read. Think of it as a sort of… repayment, if you prefer.”

Blessed Andraste, but his obsession made him love it when she peeked at him from behind her overgrown bangs. “I would like that. But you first. Right?”

“Right,” he exhaled; now it was his turn to feel discomfited. It only got worse.

“Take off your armor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Take off your armor,” she repeated, trying to banish the last of the heat from her face and look up at him. “You’re not going to be needing it, and trust me, you won’t want the extra weight and inconvenience. Things are going to get uncomfortable enough without all that getting in the way.”

“Ah, well,” he cleared his throat.

“I’m not asking you to strip or anything,” she had to turn away, that stupid blush spreading across her face, from her hairline to beneath the collar of her tunic. “Just… you know…”

He cleared his throat again. “Ah, could you help me with a few of the pieces? I’m having some trouble.”

She glanced back, unsure what he could mean, until she saw the shaking of his hands, his normally agile fingers turned clumsy and fumbling thanks to his symptoms. “Of course,” she said, her voice perhaps a little too tight and light, but neither one of them was going to say anything.

She started with the bracers on his forearms, undoing the tiny buckles that held them in place. Once they were off, she turned to set them neatly on her desk. By the time she turned back, he had his gloves off and was handing them to her while trying to undo the belt around his waist one-handed.

“I normally can undress myself,” he said, shrugging out of his mantle and passing it to her. He was trying to make small talk, and trying harder not to think of how his words sounded, “But I seem to be all thumbs tonight.”

She started unfastening the buckles of his shoulder pauldrons, “That’s why I’m here, remember? To help.”

He couldn’t answer, the feeling of impotence welling up inside him like a poison he had to vomit out…

He took a deep breath to steady himself, reminding himself he shouldn’t take it out on her, holding himself still as she removed his breastplate.

Beneath the armor he wore a coat of sturdy leather, as dark as his leggings and with a padded lining to protect his body from the inside edges of his armor. He hesitated after shrugging out of the heavy garment, looking down at himself and thinking he was probably undressed enough, now that he only wore his tunic and leggings and boots.

“Do those come off?” she asked. He looked up to see she was pointing at his lower extremities.

“Do what come off?”

“Those strange bits of metal and leather…”

“Ah, no,” he said quickly, “No, they don’t come off. They’re a part of my boots.” He looked back up at her, to find her looking at him, expectantly. He shook his head.

She nodded.

“Seriously? You want me to take off my boots?”

“You won’t need them,” she countered. “It’s not like you’ll be going anywhere. And besides, they’ll be right here, next to all your other armor, safe and sound.”

“Why do I feel like this is getting out of control?” he muttered to himself, but he did lean his backside against the edge of her desk to balance himself while he took off his boots.

She walked over to her bed next, messing with something near the head while he was distracted with his boots. He looked up when he was finished, but her back was to him. “Well?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling naked without his armor, his sweat-soaked tunic clingy and sticky against his skin, “What’s next?”

“Come here,” she answered without turning, without even peeking over her shoulder, “And put this on.”

“Put what on?” he padded on bare feet towards her, but she stepped away from the bed, still without looking at him. He watched her retreating form, but she didn’t turn around, didn’t look to see if he would do as she asked, only kept walking until she was beside the door leading to the smaller balcony. Confused, curious, and a little miffed, he looked back to the bed to find a corner of the comforter turned down to reveal… “Maker’s breath!”

She held herself, wrapping her arms around her chest in a tight hug, knowing what he must be thinking, struggling to find a way to explain why she wanted this. But the words wouldn’t come. She could only stand and stare out the glass and hope.

Cullen didn’t notice her distraught state, too caught up in his shock, staring at what was on the bed. He picked it up like he would a venomous snake, carefully and reluctantly. It was a chain, the links smaller than what one would find, say, in a dungeon, but still strong and reliable. One end was looped around the corner of her bed, secured not only to one leg but also to the frame that supported the mattress; it would not come loose without breaking the bed. There was ten feet or more of length free, on the end of which was a shackle, not something that looked like it had originally been meant to be a part of the chain, but still firmly and permanently attached. He knew it had to be the lead Harritt had made for Fear, remembering her comment from earlier in the day. It had never been used, however, thanks to how quickly and easily he had trained the mabari, and now had a shackle instead of the collar. He swallowed.

“This is not going to be pleasant, is it.”

It wasn’t a question, but she felt she had to answer, she had to justify her motives. “Cullen, I don’t know what to expect, but you’re twice my size, and I don’t want to guess how much stronger. You said, lyrium withdrawal can give you delusions, make you lose touch with reality. If you get caught in a vision or a dream, if you lose control and think you’re somewhere else, if you don’t recognize me…” She finally peeked at him over her shoulder, but he was in profile to her, staring at the shackle like it was a knife he had been told to thrust through his heart. “Well, at least I know I’ll be able to get out of range.”

It took him two tries before he could find his voice. “That’s very prudent of you. Yes, I can understand why you would want this precaution.” Before he could lose his nerve, he locked the shackle into place around his left wrist. Immediately it made him feel cold, cold and panicky and tightened his stomach into a knot that threatened to embarrass him. He should never have agreed to this, never have come here, never have told her so much about his withdrawal. He had chosen to become a templar. He had chosen to leave the Order. He should not have shared his suffering with anyone, given the impression that he was complaining about it, having difficulty with it…

“There’s a flower that grows in Tevinter,” she said softly, walking over to her desk. “I remember, from that time when my parents were still alive, sometimes we’d travel past fields and fields of this little, simple, unassuming, pale red flower.” She pulled something from a bottom drawer, and Cullen saw it was a bottle, a blue bottle, the color usually reserved for lyrium potions. Maker but how it made his hands shake to look at it. “I never knew then, never thought to ask, why anyone would grow so many of these boring-looking flowers.” She left the bottle on her desk, right next to his armor, and walked back toward the foot of the bed, all without looking at him. “Later I learned, you can take the seeds from the flower, I don’t know the whole process,” she sat down on the floor and leaned her back against the leg of the bed, “But if you squeeze the seeds, I guess, there’s an oil you can get out of them. Anyway, this oil is used to make a drug, called opeigh.

“When my master…” he saw her bite her lip, closing her eyes a moment as she corrected herself, “When Vivianus Vicici first took me to his home, took me as his slave, I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought he was helping me, protecting me while I healed. He brought me to his estate in Minrathous, gave me a room to myself with nice clothes and a window that looked out over the city, saw to it that I had plenty of healing potions and food and even sweets whenever I wanted them. But then one night, after I had recovered, he sent two guards to my room, had them bring me to this large, dark chamber in the lower levels of his estate.”

She had yet to look at him. Even now as she paused, almost panting, fighting to get the words out, her eyes were focused on something only she could see. Cullen sat down on the edge of the bed, above her, near her, the chain forgotten as her tale unfolded.

“There were two people there, two men, one… one human, one elven… in chains… stripped naked… they… they were begging… I didn’t realize it at the time… there was so much I didn’t understand… but I came to… understand, that is…”

It was hard for her to speak. So hard she felt it physically, like she had to push against an immovable force, just to take in a breath, just to exhale, just to make her vocal chords hum, just to shape her lips around the vowels and consonants. “They were his slaves. They had done something, and had to be punished, and he used me, Vicici used me to punish them. He tore the front of my dress and started cutting into me, not too deep, but he had to draw blood. And I screamed. I screamed and I kicked and I fought the guards that were holding me, but I couldn’t stop him. He bled me. He took my blood and he used that to draw a demon from the Fade, something horrible and black, and he set it on those two slaves while others watched.

“They died,” she continued, still fighting to speak, to force the words out where he could hear, all the time staring into space. Fear had come up and plopped himself down beside her, his big head heavy on her thigh. She petted him without thinking about it, too caught up in her long-buried memories. “The slaves died, torn apart. There was so much blood. And I thought…” she lost her words behind a smothered hiccough and had to push the next few words out in a rush, “I know now it was wrong, but at the time I thought I was to blame, for their deaths. It was my blood. If my blood wasn’t so powerful, if Vicici didn’t have me, then he couldn’t have hurt those two men. Afterwards he sent me back to my room, and as soon as I was able, I escaped through the window and ran.

“I was caught, almost right away. I was elven and didn’t know the city and was too weak to run for long enough to get away. When I was brought back to Vicici, he had me beaten, not too much, he didn’t want to waste my blood or risk killing me, but he did want me to feel pain. But I kept trying. No matter what he did to discourage me, I kept trying to escape every chance I got. Even after he moved me from that nice room to a cell in his dungeon, I would try to get away from the guards that came for me. Or if the blood magic was to be performed at someone else’s estate, I’d try to run off on the way there, or race down the wrong hallway or something, anything, I had to stop him and the only way I could was if I wasn’t his slave any longer…!”

Her words stopped, broken by a choked sob, wet and messy and hardly stifled behind one of her hands. Fear whined, a piercing sound, his head unmoving beneath her other hand but his sad brown eyes lifted up to her face.

Cullen could well imagine what she had seen, the horrors she had witnessed, the torture she had endured. His own hatred for blood mages rose like a tidal wave within his heart, making his chest feel tight. “You know you’re not to blame, you can’t be held culpable for…”

“Save your judgment,” she whispered vehemently, “Let me finish!” She brought her hand away from her mouth, her knuckles white she was making such a tight fist, her whole arm trembling with the force she exerted. The words came easier now, more harsh, more bitter, full of an impotent rage that resonated within Cullen’s chest. “No matter what Vicici tried, I kept trying to escape. Finally, as a last resort, he started to use opeigh. He didn’t want to, as he told me, the drug would taint my blood, lessen the power of his magic. He had to put in extra effort, timing it just right, letting me come down from the drug so that my blood would be clear enough to use, but not so long that I would start getting sick. That’s the downside of opeigh; withdrawal from it can be deadly.

“Oh, he explained this all to me, the first time he forced it down my throat. Opeigh would leave me in a stupor, a mindless state with no will of my own, pliable and apathetic and dumb. And he wasn’t wrong. I FORGOT! While taking opeigh, I forgot about my parents, the fact that they were dead, that I’d never see them again, never travel Tevinter with them, never be free! My existence was all a blank emptiness, a painless numbness, a blacker black.”

She finally looked up at him, and he wished she hadn’t. Her eyes were pink but without tears, her cheeks were blotchy and not just from her scars, her bottom lip was bleeding while her top lip curled into a hateful sneer—one that was directed at herself. “But I didn’t hurt any more. I didn’t care. I didn’t remember. And I… I… as time went on… I came to prefer it… to want it… I learned to hate the moments I came off the drug, the sweating and shaking and aches were bad, but the REMEMBERING was worse! I wanted to forget, to go back to that numbness, so I wouldn’t have to know the hell I was going through. I would grow impatient, almost eager, if he took too long to start the rituals. It even got to the point where I would strip myself, hold myself still beneath his blade, even do the cutting by my own hand! All I wanted was the opeigh, and I knew I could only have that after the ritual, after I bled.”

Her words stopped again, though her mouth continued to move. She went on for a few moments before she realized she had forgotten to use air to make the sounds. She took a staggering breath, seeming to throw her whole body into the effort, and the tears finally started to fall in silent currents down her face. “So you see, Cullen, it wasn’t just the mark that was making me sick, that first week after the Breach appeared. I know what you’ve gone through, what you’re going through, what tomorrow will feel like for you. And I know you can do this. I know you can endure. Because I have.” She offered him a plucky little smile, out of place on her face full of scars and tears. “You’re stronger and braver than I am, remember?”

Cullen felt like the world had dropped out from beneath his feet. He let himself slide off the edge of the bed to the floor, closer to her eye level, though he couldn’t look at her, not just then. His free hand landed on Fear’s back leg, and he absently stroked the fur. “Have you… ever… told this to anyone else? Cassandra? Or Solas? Or…”

Her hair shimmered as she shook her head. “No. No one. How could I? Who else would understand?” She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of the hand that wasn’t petting Fear. “I’m not even sure you understand, not all of it, but I think you needed to hear it, part of it, at least.”

He took a deep breath, unsure what to say. Then he made himself look at Peredura, look at her and see her as she was, for perhaps the first time. Not as the Inquisitor. Not as the Herald. Not as a sometimes naive, overly-trusting young woman. Not as an uneducated former slave. Purely as Peredura, as the sum of her experiences, and the result of her character.

Still there were no words.

It was a painfully peaceful scene, the two of them sitting on the floor, their backs to her bed, his left wrist chained to the head, a mabari stretched out between and touching both of them. Cullen lifted his right hand from Fear’s flank and, reaching across the hound, grasped her hand. She didn’t look up—she couldn’t—but she gave his fingers a squeeze in return.

* * *

She didn’t know how long they sat there, but she was fairly sure she must’ve dozed off. One moment they were holding hands, Fear’s fur soft and warm beneath their entwined fingers…

The next moment, Fear was gone, curled up on his rug in front of the hearth. Cullen was saying something, his grip on her hand growing tighter by the moment. She made some sort of noise, wincing as her neck hurt thanks to the awkward position her body was in, and blinked her eyes clear. “What?” she asked, turning to look at him. She was awake now; he didn’t need to squeeze so hard.

“I said, where is the key?” Cullen repeated. He lifted his left hand in emphasis, rattling the chain that dangled from his wrist. His eyes were bloodshot and slightly unfocused, his hair matted with cooled sweat, his chest moving just a little too strongly with his breath.

“It’s, ah, nearby, but you don’t need it…”

“I do!” he interrupted loudly. The next moment he seemed to realize that he had shouted. He took a breath and glanced off to the side, “I, ah, need to, um, step out, for a moment, answer a call of nature. I’ll come right back.”

Something wasn’t right, but she was too groggy to put her finger on what it was, only that she was sure things were not as they appeared. She tried to keep calm and explain how she had already thought of every need. “Oh, no, you don’t have to, there’s a chamberpot beneath the bed right there. I’ll just leave the room for a few moments, give you some privacy.” She made to stand up, but he didn’t let go of her fingers.

“It would be easier if you unlock me.”

“Ow, Cullen, you’re hurting me…” She had to sit back down, or the position would have broken her fingers. Slowly he stood, shifting his grip, applying pressure to her wrist as well as her hand. “Cullen…?”

“Where is the key!”

Fear lifted his head, giving a low growl in warning. Peredura was kneeling in front of Cullen now, bent and buckled in an attempt to keep him from breaking her wrist. “No, Fear. Stay,” she panted. There was definitely something very wrong going on, but she knew Fear would only make matters worse.

“You have it on you, don’t you,” he insisted. He went from pushing her down to pulling her to her feet, all through the pressure he exerted on her hand. She cried out, softly, but he didn’t seem to hear her. “Is it in your coat? On a chain around your neck? Tell me!”

“Cullen!” she gasped, sure she was feeling bruises form that would perfectly match the imprint of his hand wrapped around her own, “It’s me. Peredura. You’re hurting me.”

“Let me out of here!” he snarled at her, unwilling or unable to recognize her or their surroundings. He started pawing at her coat, feeling around for any pockets or pouches. His fingers were harsh, brutal, invasive. “Give me the damn key!”

“I don’t have it on me,” she pleaded with him, “Let me go and I’ll get it for you.”

He laughed, a sound that chilled her, a sound that was not Cullen. He threw her face down onto the bed, his body immediately following, a knee in her back keeping her prisoner. Fear let out a startled bark followed by a confused whine, but remained on his rug. Cullen paid the hound no heed. He roughly tugged her coat off her person, not caring if he caught her hair or bent her arms backwards painfully. “I don’t believe you. I won’t! You have the key. You must have it. It must be here. It must, because I need it to be! I have to get out of here!”

The pressure of his knee lessened in the small of her back, while he continued to paw through her coat, holding it between his hands and ripping the seams. She was uncertain, hesitating, wondering if she should try to get away while he was distracted with her coat, or if she should call Fear to try to pull him off of her, or if she should….

“Where is the key? Hurry! Give it to me!”

She had hesitated for too long. He grabbed her by her scalp and lifted her to her feet. One arm wrapped around her neck, the muscles thick and solid, squeezing her windpipe. The other hand let go of her hair and started searching her clothing.

“Cullen… I… I can’t… breathe…” her fingers dug ineffectively at his arm, managing to pull his tunic, but not his flesh.

“Now you know how I feel, demon,” he spat at her, his breath hot and angry in her ear. He flexed his arm, jerking her body in emphasis. “This is what you put me through. Holding me captive. Torturing my mind. The air hot and stale and close. But not this time. This time you WILL release me!”

Peredura’s face felt flushed and swollen, her heartbeat pounded in her ears, her throat wheezed painfully with each thin breath, her vision began to turn fuzzy and gray. She was barely conscious, almost out of time, and had only one option left to her. “Fear!” she gasped, praying that the hound would recognize her intent even without the proper training, “Attack!”

The second word came out as a garbled noise, unintelligible to her own ears, but her mabari understood. She saw a darker shadow leap across her darkening vision. She heard a startled cry of pain, but couldn’t tell if it was Cullen’s or her own. There was the sound of fabric ripping…

Then she was falling, falling away to land on the floor. Hard. It might’ve knocked the wind out of her, if she had any wind in her lungs. Instead it jarred her elbow and sent stars bursting through her vision. She didn’t wait, didn’t attempt to make sense of what was happening, but rolled. She rolled and rolled across the floor until she felt something solid stop her.

“Heel!” she coughed, “Heel!” Whatever was happening, whatever delusion Cullen was lost in, he didn’t deserve to be mauled by her hound. She managed a deep, full breath past her bruised throat, and meant to call again, but Fear was already returned to her, his cold nose and slobbering tongue at her cheek.

“Good boy, stay,” she grunted, her hand not so much petting his head as keeping him from licking the skin off her face. She closed her eyes and laid her forehead down on her other arm. Fear settled down next to her, panting, watching over her protectively, as she seriously considered passing out for a moment or two.

She couldn’t, however, she knew that; but she did take a couple of minutes to rest, to work on loosening her throat and easing her breath. After a few moments, she found she could manage to breathe without wheezing, and even discovered she could still swallow. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees before opening her eyes.

Fear was there, as she knew he’d be, watching her and acting like everything was all right. She gave him a smile and shifted to sitting down so she could scratch the back of his neck. Then she looked across the room at Cullen.

Her heart broke at the sight.

Cullen had been injured by her hound. His sleeve was torn and there were a few scratches across his biceps that oozed blood, but she didn’t think the scratches were deep enough to do serious harm. She was more concerned there might have been puncture wounds from Fear’s teeth, yet it appeared the mabari knew he didn’t need to bite Cullen, only encourage him to let her go. A bit of healing potion should take care of the scratches by morning.

His mental state, however, needed more than a healing potion. Cullen was lying on his side, curled up into the fetal position, his eyes closed tight and his lips moving in a continuous stream of sound. His hands were clasped in front of his chest, trembling with tension, his knuckles white. Whatever he was saying, she couldn’t quite understand the words, slurred and stumbling over each other, but she could understand the fervency and emotion behind them. He was praying.

“Cullen?” she called softly across the room, her voice hoarse and not sounding like herself.

He didn’t answer.

“Cullen? Can you hear me? Open your eyes; do you know who I am?”

“Cease, demon…” he moaned a little louder before returning to his incessant prayer, keeping his eyes closed all the while.

He was lost. He was lost in some deep delusion and she could not reach him. She shook her head. Opeigh had never given her visions; quite the opposite, it had taken everything away from her, including the desire to oppose it. She didn’t know what she could do to help Cullen. Yes, she knew how to combat the physical side-effects of withdrawal, but the mental ones he was facing were beyond her experience.

She started to get up when she noticed something about herself; her tunic had been torn. Not just torn, but ripped from her body; only the collar remained in place, and a sleeve bunched around her wrist and dangling one long strip of fabric. Instantly her hands flew, clutching at the remaining cloth and trying desperately to cover her torso. The next moment she almost laughed at herself, thinking she wasn’t so concerned about revealing her figure as she was about revealing her scars.

She looked back at Cullen, but he was still curled up and refusing to believe she was real.

She looked at Fear next, but he merely sat and panted, waiting patiently for her command.

She looked around herself and saw she was backed against the balcony door near her dresser. Slowly she stood up, no longer wanting to attract attention to herself, not until she could get into her dresser and find another tunic. The drawer rattled as it opened, making her wince and duck behind the piece of furniture, but Cullen remained stubbornly unaware of her predicament. She grabbed the tunic that was on top of the stack and pulled it on over the remnants of the last tunic.

Feeling more secure with her scarred torso covered, she returned her attention to Cullen. Cautiously she approached him, fiddling with removing her ruined clothing while she walked. He didn’t look up at her approach, didn’t even appear to be aware of her. She didn’t want to get too close, but she didn’t want to leave him lying on the cold hard floor. She looked over her shoulder at Fear, but he remained calmly sitting near the balcony door where she had told him to stay. The last time, when something was wrong with Cullen, Fear had sensed it somehow and tried to warn her. She decided to trust him again.

“What do you think, Fear? Is he all right now?”

“Leave me,” Cullen moaned.

“I guess that answers my question,” she muttered to herself.

“Fear,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “Desire. I denounce you both!” His bloodshot eyes flashed open, and startled she took half a step back. Weakly he pushed himself to his knees as he continued in a voice rife with abiding agony, “That’s right. I know who you are—what you truly are. Demons! I have met your like before, and I have endured your torment. Try me if you must, but you have been warned.” He glared at her from beneath his honey brows, hazel eyes flinty and dead, his lip curling with hate as he caught his breath.

“Cullen, I… I’m not a… demon… please, listen to me… it’s the withdrawal…”

“You haven’t quite got the voice right,” he taunted her, trying to rise, “Though I’ll allow, the shape is true.” He moaned when he failed to reach his feet, and instead ended up sitting once more with his back to the bed. Panting, sweating, disbelieving, he stared at her. “Well, go ahead, begin my torment. I will endure it.” He let go with a weak sort of chuckle. “I have before.”

Quietly she had to admit to herself, her voice didn’t sound like her voice, thanks to his arm nearly crushing her windpipe. She tried to clear her throat, but that didn’t so much help matters as cause her pain. Giving up on her voice, she focused on him, edging back the half step she had just retreated. “Cullen, do you know where we are?”

“Does it matter?” he countered, his head lolling against the mattress. When she didn’t answer, he gave an unconcerned shrug. “Very well, I will play your little game. I know we’re in the tower at Kinloch. Oh, I admit, this room is unfamiliar to me, definitely not from the tower. Some vision created by you, no doubt. But where else could we be? My torment began in Kinloch. This is where it will end.”

She didn’t like the sound of those words, as if he thought he would die here, or at the very least fail to break free of lyrium’s indestructible hold. She wanted to cry for him, but it was more important she stay strong for him—and deadly important that she somehow reach him. “Cullen, look at me. Do you know who I am?”

He stared at her, a look on his face that she had never seen before, not from him, not from any man. It was filled with need, and longing, and a hunger that could never be sated. It scared her and thrilled her at the same time. “You’re a demon, a desire demon, taking on HER form.” He laughed again, both the sound and expression fading into pain and regret. “Appropriate, that. But you’ve missed your target. I know the only reason my thoughts dwell on her is due to lyrium withdrawal. I do not truly love her. I do not truly feel jealousy when another man pays attention to her or, or, or holds her, kisses her. So go ahead. Show me whatever vision of impotent lust and unrequited desire you have planned. It will not touch me. It will not break me!”

Peredura stood there, frozen and speechless with shock. A feeling of déjà vu crept down her spine, as she was suddenly reminded of another time he had spoken of his feelings for her, feelings he had never shared, feelings he had never acknowledged—even to himself. But his words continued, piling on more and more confusion and frustration.

“Why are you just standing there?!” he demanded, spittle forming at the edges of his mouth. “Don’t you remember why you imprisoned me here? Can’t you delve into my thoughts and pluck from them a fitting scenario? Or is your friend,” he nodded to the mabari, “The fear demon, unwilling to play its part?” He leaned forwards, but she didn’t move back, enthralled by the intensity of his glower. “Perhaps there are too many to chose from, is that it, too many torments to make me suffer and watch? Allow me to help. Try using Dorian Pavus for starters; the two of them have so much in common, both being from Tevinter, both having experience with magic. And he does make her laugh so easily, something I could never do. No? Then perhaps Solas; he’s a fellow elf, someone she must feel kinship with. He’s watched over her like a father, caring for her, protecting and defending her when the rest of us might have condemned her to death. Or try Varric; she does love listening to his stories, and he got her that puppy, endearing her to him even further. That would be a laugh! The powerful and steadfast Cullen Rutherford, thrown over for a man half his size.” He pulled his legs beneath him, bracing his feet, but she didn’t notice the movement, still too shocked by what she thought he was saying. “No, wait, you should start with something similar to the last time you tortured me. Sera. That would be perfect, wouldn't it? Peredura and Sera. Yes, that’s what you should show me first. That’s the scene you should act out. That’s what will cause me the greatest torment.”

A low growl came from Fear, giving her warning and jarring her from her shock. She shivered with indecision, wanting to look towards Fear but not wanting to take her eyes off of Cullen, her head twitching on her shoulders. In the next heartbeat, Cullen lunged to his feet, throwing himself at her, his hands extended like talons. She stifled her scream and scampered back just in time, not stopping until she was beside Fear, even though the chain rattled and jerked Cullen off his feet. He landed heavily, making a loud thump against the wooden floor hard enough to shake the whole room.

Immediately he was back on his feet, pulling as far as the chain would allow, though despite its length he was still a couple of yards shy of her. “I will destroy you, demon! Both of you! Whatever you think you can do to me, I will put you through ten times worse! I may no longer be a templar, I may no longer have the power that lyrium once gave me, but I still have my faith. I will be strong. I will endure. I will remain unbroken!”

His voice was in such pain at the end, Peredura felt tears sting her eyes.

“I… will remain… unbroken…”

He fell to his knees once more, clasping his hands and praying, but Peredura didn’t hear the words. Her mind was too full of other words—his earlier words—rattling around and bumping into each other and making a right mess of her thoughts. Cullen might possibly have just confessed to feeling love for her, or at least feeling jealousy whenever she was with another man. Yes, he had said he thought it was due to withdrawal, but he was feeling something towards her. He had even listed people that he thought the desire demon—he thought she was a demon?—could use to create visions that would hurt him. Her and Dorian. Her and Solas. Her and Varric. Her and… Sera?

She thought back to that evening in Haven months ago, after he rescued her from the lake, when she had asked him about kissing girls and how it should feel. He had acted strangely, not that she paid attention at the time, but now she remembered, the whiteness of his knuckles around the goblet, how his lips parted while he panted for air. He was gasping now, interrupting his own prayer, the words becoming smothered and half-formed.

In his little rant just now, he had mentioned that demons had tortured him before, in Kinloch, where he thought he was tonight. He had never told her what happened there, other than the Circle fell, and he had had to take the life of a fellow templar—end their suffering. She remembered what he told her of lyrium withdrawal, how it made one’s past, the worst memories and nightmares in one’s head seem real, undistinguishable from what was around them. That must be what he was experiencing right now, or re-experiencing—the worst moment of his life, reliving what happened when the Kinloch Circle fell: the suffering, the torture, the loss of his friend.

She took a deep breath, slow and easy, and in stark contrast to his half-choked breaths. Regardless of whatever he was facing mentally, it was making him suffer physically. She had to find a way to help him, find a way to lead him out of his vision and back to reality.

Desire and fear. Cullen—possibly, quite probably—desired her, which is why when he looked at her, he saw a demon, and had named those things with which she could tempt him. But he had also convinced himself he was seeing a fear demon, so there had to be something here that was triggering his fear. She looked at Fear, but Cullen had never shown any apprehension around her hound; quite the opposite, in fact. She supposed it could be because he recognized her mabari and thought the demon was taking on Fear’s form, or because he had heard her call him Fear, or because there was as yet some undiscovered reasoning behind his thoughts, or perhaps there wasn’t any reasoning at all! She chewed her lip and drew blood, she was so distraught, watching him grow more and more distressed.

“Kill me…”


	12. Chains (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.

The room was quiet, though anything but peaceful. A puissant danger lurked in the shadows, an intangible foe, but no less deadly for not having a physical form. It was an idea, a thought, a fear that ate at the soul like a cancer, poisoning the surrounding tissues, weakening the host.

“Kill me…” Cullen’s voice grew louder, his pants heavier, as he came out of his prayer. He remained on his knees, his hands gripping his thighs, his eyes staring at the floorboards as he addressed his tormenters. “Kill me now. I will not break, and this slow suffocation is killing me anyway.”

Peredura blinked from where she stood beside her mabari, Fear. She had been chewing her lip, deep in thought, trying to figure out a way to knock Cullen out of his delusion. The severity of his statement shocked her, and her lip fell free of its torment. “…suffocation…”

“I can’t breathe,” he moaned, “You know it. You’re doing it on purpose. Like before. But it won’t break me. It’ll only kill me, slowly, but I will be dead and you still will not get any enjoyment from tormenting me. You might as well kill me now and get it over with.”

“Cullen, it’s me, Peredura, I’m not going to kill you…”

He finally looked at her, his expression too hopeless, overflowing with unending anguish. “You should. If you were Peredura, truly her and not a desire demon in her form, you would kill me. You would end my suffering. Mercifully. Quickly. Peredura would not leave me to linger a slow death. I know this! She’s already done it! She would do it again!” He turned away from her and back to his prayer, “…would not see me suffer…”

Broken free of his gaze, her overwhelmed mind reeled with his words, with the remembrance of that other Cullen—suffering a slow death from red lyrium, her blade ending his life quickly and cleanly. And he was asking her to do it again. She felt like she had to sit down, her knees turning to water and her head spinning. Her hand reached out and found Fear, her fingers burrowing into his short, soft, warm fur, the connection giving her strength. Keeping her feet, she remembered what Cullen had said once, how being in a stuffy, windowless room made his skin itch. She had thought that meant his fear was being in small, airless spaces, or at least was related to it. She looked around them; her chambers were not small, nothing that should trigger this fear of his. Yet his fear was being triggered, his labored breaths confirmed it. Then again, with the fire happily consuming logs in the hearth, she allowed it could seem over-warm and stuffy in here—she did like her room to be warmer than the rest of the keep. But it was her room. And she was used to warmer climates.

And… Cullen felt like he was suffocating.

“Kaffas,” she muttered to herself, knowing he was right, knowing she could not allow him to suffer. But she was not going to kill him, either. “Shit,” she added as she walked over to the balcony door and turned the latch, propping it open with her helmet from the nearby mannequin. She grabbed another tunic from her chest of drawers, a nice thick and soft one, and pulled it down over her head. Next she slipped her lightweight armored jacket over her shoulders, buttoning it closed as she walked to one of the other balcony doors and propped it open.

Immediately a strong breeze blew through, chilling her even through the extra layers she had put on. She walked in front of the hearth and warmed herself there, turning every so often because for her, whichever half of her body was facing away from the flames grew very cold, very quickly.

On one spin she looked to Cullen. He seemed calmer, his pose relaxed and not quite as curled in on himself. The breeze ruffled his hair, and he lifted his face towards it, away from her. He held himself still, like a hound scenting the wind, searching the air for signs of friend or foe. He must have satisfied himself to the lack of danger, as in the next moment his shoulders slumped and his hands unclasped.

“Cullen?”

He heard her voice, but he didn’t answer, and she couldn't blame him, still not sounding like herself. He turned slowly where he knelt on the floor, his gaze sweeping through the room as if trying to decipher where he was currently. He hesitated on her desk, eying his armor, and providing her with his profile.

“Cullen? Do you know me?”

He gave himself a little shake and continued his search of the room until he found her, silhouetted in front of the hearth. His brow scrunched as he tried to discern who she was, a hand coming up to block out the light of the flames. She stepped closer to him, alert for Fear’s warning growl, but that never came.

“Peredura?” he asked, taking in her whole form, from the tips of her boots to her long brown hair.

She wanted to sob with relief, but settled for a smile and a slow blink. “Yes, it’s me.”

“What…” he still seemed confused, looking around them, looking back at her. She inched closer, but Fear continued to remain quiet. He saw the bruising around her neck and his brows curled with concern. “What happened?” his eyes locked onto her hand next, onto the darkening bruises and the stiff way she held it. “Did someone hurt you? Is there danger nearby? I’ll get my sword and protect you…” he made to stand, but the chain on his wrist rattled, the sound unexpected, making him look to his wrist and lose his balance. He collapsed onto one knee and a hand while staring at the shackle. “What is this?”

“You’re suffering from lyrium withdrawal, remember?” she reminded him gently, in case he was lost in another hallucination. “You came here, to my chambers tonight, so I could help you.”

“I…” he started and stopped, wanting to answer, not remembering what she spoke of, not knowing what he could say. He looked back up at her, noted the cautious way she knelt down just a little beyond his reach, her feet beneath her so she could stand at a moment’s notice. It was like she was fearful of… him? Guilt thrust like a hot poker through his heart, though he had no idea why. “Blessed Andraste, I… did I… who hurt you?” He lifted a hand towards her beseechingly.

Immediately he winced, the scratches on his biceps flaring into life and starting to bleed again. He frowned at his arm and tried to see how bad the damage was, pulling at his sleeve and ripping the fabric more to get a better look at the wounds. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice just as lost as it had been in the grips of his vision.

“Fear,” she admitted. “He, er, had to, he didn’t bite, but he, um,” she couldn’t continue, couldn’t tell him what had happened, couldn’t cause him even more guilt and anguish. “I’ll just go get you a healing potion,” she finished in a rush. She had to turn away, racing to her desk, not wanting to see anymore the look on his face, the horror and disgust and self-doubt and self-loathing. She rummaged in the bottom drawer until she found the bottle she wanted. Still unable to meet his eyes, she walked back until she was close enough to hand it over to him.

He didn’t take it. She finally had to look at him, had to see why he didn’t take the bottle, and found him staring into space, the corners of his eyes pulled down with sorrow and regret. She glanced over to Fear, but he seemed unconcerned, panting in the breeze by the door, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, facing Cullen once more. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“For whatever I’ve done … I have no right to ask this, but …” Cullen said softly, his movements slow though unresisting as she lifted him to his feet, “Please, forgive me.”

“It wasn’t you.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, not if she maintained that Cullen wasn’t in his right mind, and therefore could not be held responsible for his actions.  “And everyone’s all right. Sit down here. Good. Now, take a sip.”

“What is it?” he asked, staring at the bottle, suddenly fearful of the answer.

“A healing potion,” she answered. When he didn’t appear to believe her, she took a small sip herself, “See?” She could feel the potion start to take effect, calming the aches in her throat and hand, erasing the bruising, lessening the swelling. His eyes flickered to her hand, and she lifted it so he could see the healing was beginning.

Amazingly a tint of pink settled across his cheeks. “I suppose I should have believed you, it’s only that…” he didn’t finish, his eyes lifting to her desk.

She knew what he was thinking, and tried to distract him from the bottle on her desk. “Drink this; then get some sleep.” Her voice sounded normal once more, the potion having healed the damage he had caused.

He took the bottle this time, lifted it to his lips and swallowed. He handed it back to her, feeling the rush of healing cool the burning sensation in his arm. He didn’t argue when she pushed him to lie down on the bed, but he did hold out a hand to stop her from covering him with the comforter.

“What’s in the bottle?”

“I told you,” she answered without looking at him, setting the bottle aside, “It’s just a healing potion…”

“No,” his hand gripped her forearm before she could slip away. She sucked in a breath and waited, thinking she’d hear a warning growl next, but Fear remained silent. Her reaction did not go unnoticed by Cullen, and once more guilt drowned his heart. He let go of her arm just as quickly as he had grabbed it, yet he had to know, he had to ask, “The bottle on your desk.”

She looked at him, soft brown eyes steadily holding his ailing hazel as she answered, “A sleeping draught. A powerful one. Would you like some?”

He scoffed, but relaxed and dropped his gaze. “I should say yes, but I won’t. My sleep holds no more peace for me than my waking hours.” He laid back onto the pillow again and placed his forearm over his eyes.

“Try to get some sleep, anyway. Good night, Cullen.”

He didn’t answer her. She didn’t think he could have fallen asleep that quickly, but if he wanted to pretend, to find some solace in the quiet of his thoughts, alone, she would let him. She walked as quietly as she could over to the rug in front of the hearth—the only warm spot in the whole room—and softly called to Fear. The puppy bounded up to her, happily wagging his whole back end as well as his stub of a tail, and gave her an encouraging lick. She smiled for his exuberance; she smiled for hope for Cullen. Then side by side, she and her mabari settled down to sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

The knock was loud, but Fear’s bark was louder. Right in her ear.

Peredura winced, but she pushed herself up off of the floor to look around. She and Fear where were they had been a few short—very short—hours ago, curled up together on the rug in front of the dying fire. He was alert, panting, staring at the top of the stairs and looking like he wanted to get up. She gave him a scratch and stood up, wondering why she had been sleeping on the floor with him.

She remembered with a start. Immediately her eyes flew to her bed, apprehensive, but there was no cause for alarm. Cullen was lying there as he had been earlier, practically unmoved, but in looking closer she could see his chest rise and fall in slow, deep breaths. The next moment, the knocking started up again, followed by a familiar voice filled with concern. She took a deep breath herself, and finger combed her hair while she headed down the stairs for her chamber door.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine’s voice sounded through the wood, “Are you all right?”

“What?” she asked, opening the door, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Inquisitor, we were… oh!” Josephine was standing there, without her clipboard for once, her eyes sweeping up and down Peredura’s form and taking note of every detail. “Peredura, are you unwell? You look like you haven’t slept a wink. And still dressed in your armor from yesterday,” she gently chided.

“Oh, ah, this, I, ah, yes, I was cold last night, I mean, I think I’ve got a bit of a cold, or something.” She shuddered, a chill running down her spine, now that she was away from the fire.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Josephine leaned in close and set a caring hand on her arm, “And still not used to the colder climate here, are you?”

“Ah, no,” she rubbed her arms, trying to regain some warmth, “But at least it’s warm enough to grow grass and trees, here in Skyhold, I mean, even if it is up in the mountains. Was there something you wanted?” The end of her question was swallowed in another yawn.

“Well, there was the meeting we were supposed to have this morning, concerning what you found at Haven…”

“Kaffas!” her hand slapped across her mouth, at both the curse and her forgetful mind. “Excuse me, Josephine, I forgot…”

“Quite understandable, since you’re not feeling well,” she allowed. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She stepped closer, as if she wanted to enter the room.

“No, ah, that is, I’m just…” before Peredura could think of an excuse to keep Josephine from discovering Cullen chained to her bed—how could she explain that?—Fear pushed past her knees and bounded down the next flight of steps. “No! Fear! Oh, he probably needs to be walked, but I…” she glanced over her shoulder, thinking of Cullen, not wanting to leave him alone in case he might need something.

“I could find someone to see to that,” Josephine offered. “I know Commander Cullen has grown quite fond of your hound. I’m sure he’d be willing to watch him while you’re indisposed.”

“He, ah, can’t,” Peredura’s sluggish mind raced to remember what excuse she had already thought up to explain Cullen’s absence. “Commander Cullen is on a mission, away from Skyhold, I sent him out yesterday, there was a contact in the templars he wanted to try to get in touch with, to see if he could find out what was going on, with the red lyrium and all that…” Her voice trailed away. She could feel her cheeks start to burn, thinking the excuse was flimsy and Josephine would see through her lie and start to wonder where Cullen was…

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Josephine spoke a little louder so she could be heard over the scratching noises Fear was making, “But of course he would have acquaintances in their ranks. Quite a good idea, Inquisitor.”

“Oh, um, thanks, but it was his idea. I only approved it.”

Josephine looked at her closer again, but Peredura forced herself to hold her gaze steady. Fear whined and scratched at the lower door more insistently.

“Then perhaps Ser Blackwall would be willing to keep Fear occupied for a few days, while you’re indisposed. I know Grey Wardens often work with mabari.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Peredura shook her head. “I mean, if he wanted to walk Fear or play with him for a bit, give him some exercise, but I prefer having Fear with me. He’s… comforting,” she finished, thinking of his ability to tell when Cullen was sane and when he was lost in a delusion.

“Of course. I’ll take Fear to him now, shall I, and return him to you in an hour or so. In the meantime, is there anything else you require? I could have the servants bring you something to eat, if you think you’re able.”

“Ah, yes, please, thank you,” she sighed, thinking of Cullen as well as herself. “Nothing too heavy, or flavorful, I think my stomach is a bit upset, but perhaps some rolls, or a cup of broth, I’m not really sure.”

“I’ll have them bring up a selection, see what tempts your appetite. You must keep up your strength, Inquisitor; all of Thedas is relying on you.”

This time Peredura kept the sigh to herself, thinking she could barely handle one man’s problems, she could hardly be expected to handle half a world’s worth of problems. “Again, thank you, Josephine. Could we, do you think, could we postpone the meeting for another day? Tomorrow, maybe, in the afternoon? I think I might be feeling better by then.”

Fear barked, growing more anxious by the moment.

“I’ll see to it. Excuse me, but I think I should take care of Fear before he either tears through the door or leaves a mess on the stairs.”

“Yes, of course. Until later.” Peredura spoke to her back, Josephine hurrying to catch up with the very insistent mabari puppy. The lower door opened before she reached it, and Leliana’s voice could be heard, though Peredura couldn’t make out what she said.

“Oh, just a cold or something, nothing serious, at any rate,” she heard Josephine answer. “Poor girl is flushed and shivering and has bags under her eyes; I think it would be best if we let her recover first. We do have Iron Bull's written report…” The lower door closed, shutting off the rest of the conversation between Josephine and Leliana.

Peredura closed her door and leaned against it, taking a selfish moment to indulge in a relieved sigh. She had managed to convince Josephine that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on; Josephine would handle the others. Now all she had to deal with was Cullen. Right. A man twice her size with deadly skills suffering from violent delusions.

She climbed back up the steps as quietly as she could, just in case he was asleep. He appeared to be, though he had rolled from his back onto his side, lifting his scratched arm off the bedclothes. Though the wounds were healed, there remained the dried blood on his skin and shirt. She should clean up the mess, but she wasn’t sure it would be safe. Looking closely, she saw his features beneath his stubbled cheeks were calm and relaxed, his lips parted slightly as he breathed. To her eyes he looked harmless, normal, almost like a little boy, and definitely not within the grips of a delusion. But she knew she shouldn’t take any chances, not without Fear to warn her. She stood there, at the foot of the bed, frozen in indecision.

“It’s not considered polite to stare, you know.”

To her credit, she resisted the impulse to jump and scream. Cullen hadn’t stirred, the only movement from him being the little hairs turned frizzy around his ears, swaying in the breeze. She edged around the corner of the bed, but didn’t approach any closer. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat? The servants are bringing a tray in a few moments…”

“I can’t stomach anything, not right now,” he moaned softly, a furrow appearing between his brows. He had yet to open his eyes.

“Some water, perhaps?”

“No! Nothing!” he panted, his hand coming up to rub at his face. When he pulled it away, he finally looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, watery, hardly able to focus on her. “Peredura?”

“Good morning, Cullen.”

He swallowed, feeling like he had a mouth full of cotton. He lifted his head and looked around the room, but didn’t recognize his surroundings. “Where…?”

“Don’t you remember?” she asked, feeling like they had had this conversation only a short while ago. “You came here, to my chambers, last night, so I could help you through your withdrawal.”

He stared at her, struggling to comprehend her words. He was suffering from… withdrawal… “Withdrawal from what?” He pushed himself to sit up on the bed, feeling like he had to get away from the covers before they could entangle his limbs and smother him. Something on his left wrist jangled and pinched his skin. He lifted his hand up to stare stupidly at the shackle. “What is this?” He rubbed his free hand over his face again, felt the fresh sweat and the dried, felt his shoulder and arm pull at his tunic. He looked at his sleeve, saw the tears and the blood sticking the fabric to flesh, and knew he had been injured. His memory returned, though jumbled and unclear and filled with more dream than actual events. “I know what this is,” he acknowledged, his voice cruel and dark. “Torture. You’ll not break me, demon! You didn’t before, remember? You held us captive… harassed us… denied us peace or sleep for days! You… scooped out our thoughts… replaced them with visions… horrors… the others gave in… turned into monsters… no longer themselves… but I remained faithful! I remained strong! I alone remained!”

He saw the demon—Maker, of all the forms it had to take, why did it have to look like Peredura, the one who would cause him the most anguish?—he saw the demon step back, pull away from him, fearful and timid, acting so like the real Peredura. If only she were here… If only he could find the courage to speak to her… If only it was more than obsession he felt towards her…

Obsession…

Withdrawal…

Lyrium…

He was no longer taking lyrium…

His stomach tightened into a knot. His hands shook. He gripped the edge of the bed, but he didn’t think he could remain sitting up, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. “I… I think… I’m going to…” His words ended in a moan, unable to articulate his need. The room spun, the floor and wall exchanging places. He felt a sharp pain in one knee, another on his shoulder, a third on his cheek.

Then his whole body curled and convulsed around his midsection, as he tried to empty an already empty stomach.

Time passed, lost beneath an onslaught of pain and sickness. The only relief he felt was the occasional sensation of something cool against his skin, wiping his cheek or mouth, pressing against the back of his neck, letting some small part of him feel fresh and normal. It faded all too quickly into sweat and pain, but the coolness would always return.

He knew he was sick. He knew why he was sick. He needed lyrium; it was the only thing that could ease the illness. He opened his eyes, tried to make sense of what he saw, but only shapeless color and diffused light filled his vision. “Lyrium… please…” desperately he tried to make himself understood to the seemingly benevolent presence attending him, “I… I need it… I need lyrium…”

“I… I can’t, Cullen,” a woman’s voice answered, tender and merciful and empathetic, like the voice of Andraste herself, “You’re not taking lyrium any longer, remember?”

That didn’t make any sense. Of course he was taking lyrium; he was a templar—he’d been taking lyrium for over a decade. It was what gave him power over mages. He could feel it, that part inside him, that power which hungered for lyrium, which was weakened and nearly worthless without it, which clawed at his insides in an attempt to escape his mortal form and find lyrium on its own. And he knew there was lyrium nearby; he’d seen it! Earlier! Glowing blue, so temptingly close, just out of his reach… “…over by my armor… there’s a bottle… please… for the love of the Maker!”

“No.”

What was this thing, this spirit, that went from nursing him to tormenting him? Why couldn’t he make her understand what he needed, why he needed it? “I’m a templar,” he pleaded, trying to reason with her, pushing himself up onto one elbow, “Templars need lyrium.”

“You’re not a templar, not anymore. And you’ve struggled for too long, fought too hard to make it this far. I won’t let you fail now. Be strong, Cullen, please, for my sake.”

A face floated before him, the edges blurred and indistinct. He reached up to her, to that beautiful being hovering nearby. His heated fingers touched her cool cheek and felt the scars he couldn’t see. He blinked, and long brown hair came into focus, falling like curtains from either side of a pair of soft brown eyes. “Peredura?”

The eyes blinked, shedding tears, one of which trailed a path down her cheek next to his thumb. He brushed it away, feeling the change in texture across her skin, moving from scar to smooth and back to scar.

It couldn’t be her, Peredura, trapped in this Maker-forsaken place with him.

His thirst for lyrium was forgotten in the face of his confusion. “What are you?” he whispered, his eyes flickering over her features, studying her, searching for the truth, seeking some nonexistent flaw that would prove her a trick, “A dream? A memory? A fear? Something sent here to help me, or keep me captive?”

“A little of both,” she offered a sad sort of smile. “And I’m sorry for this, for all you’re going through. I wish I could make it easier for you, but I can’t. No one can. You have to suffer.”

“A demon, then?” he concluded, “Is that what you are?” He closed his eyes and let his hand fall away. “I should have known. Of course, you would pick her form.”

He heard a sound, like a sob, broken off almost before it started. He looked back up to see her, a little more in focus this time. As soon as she saw he was looking at her, she pulled her fist from her mouth. She tried to appear calm, he could tell, but there were more tears threatening to spill from her bloodshot eyes. Dark circles were beneath them, making the brown appear deeper, softer, far too kind for this world, for all that Peredura had been through, for all that she had to endure. “Is it you?” he wondered, with no idea that he had spoken out loud. “Maker… if only… if it could be you… if I could tell you…”

“What?” she squeaked, her voice garbled with emotion and hope and frustration and tears. She swallowed and tried again, “What would you tell me?”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t tell her; and I won’t tell you. Pluck it from my thoughts—I know you can—but I won’t speak it. I will not be broken!”

She turned away from him, her arms wrapping around herself, and disappeared into the shadows.

“I will not be broken!” he called after her, after the demon of desire that was causing his agony. His abdominals clenched when he shouted, the abused muscles aching and giving him cause to moan. Grimacing he eased himself onto his back and saw he was lying on the floor, though cushioned on a thick comforter. He didn’t think it odd, truly didn’t care, only thankful that he was being allowed to rest.

His gratitude was short-lived. He felt her presence when she returned, the desire demon, like electricity in the air, like a magic spell about to be cast, like a storm cloud about to break. “What do you want?” he demanded without opening his eyes.

“Are… are you hungry?” she asked, hesitantly. He opened one eye to find her kneeling next to him, a small tray in her hands. “I have some food here…”

He lifted one eyebrow at what she set down beside him, a small platter and cup. “Bread and water?”

“You shouldn’t have anything too difficult to digest,” she responded, “Not right now, not until you’re feeling better. But it’s a hearty bread, dense and filled with nuts and berries. And the broth is quite good. I’ve been keeping it warm by the fire for you.”

He eyed it suspiciously as he rolled onto his side, but he knew he had no strength to resist this temptation. Maker, but how the sight of such a simple meal could make his mouth water. He reached out for it, his hand shaking, his fingers crumbling the bread as he broke off a morsel. Half of it fell before he could get it into his mouth, but he didn’t care. The flavor was blissful, though the mechanics of eating made his jaw sore. He swallowed the mouthful half-chewed, having to push the dry food past an even dryer throat. Part of a nut got caught on the way down and made him cough, his abdominals aching again, but he refused to let the food come back up.

He was reaching for the second bite before he had finished forcing the first bite down.

“Try some broth,” the desire demon/benevolent spirit/Peredura suggested. Her hand took hold of his, the cool touch startling him. He looked up at her, crumbs clinging to his lips and stubble, but allowed her to guide his hand to the cup of broth. It was warm in contrast to her skin, and he felt his hand being held between her coolness and the cup’s warmth, like he was being held between Thedas and the Fade.

He continued to stare at her, watching her, allowing her to bring his hand to his mouth, tip the cup, grant him some small sip of enlivenment. All too soon the broth was taken away, not too far, but far enough to encourage him to swallow what was in his mouth. “Take it slowly, or you’ll only make yourself sick.” She helped him take another sip, her eyes focused on making sure they didn’t spill the broth.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, unable to comprehend the concept of a good demon. Maybe he had been wrong; maybe she wasn’t a desire demon, but something closer to Cole—a spirit that by its own will entered the world and took on the form of a person. Yet why would she torment him by taking on Peredura’s shape? Tears stung his eyes, and he hated himself for showing such weakness in front of anyone. He looked down at the tray before she could see his shame.

“I’m doing this, because I can,” she answered, unaware of his inner torment, her attention on helping him drink. “Because you need my help. Because I’m possibly the only one who can help you.” She took the cup from his hand so he could try some more bread. The second bite went down easier, thanks to the broth moistening his throat. He leaned over the tray, his pride forgotten before the onslaught of his hunger. He finished the meager amount of food quickly, taking care to also pick up whatever crumbs he could manage with his trembling fingers.

“You should try to sleep for a bit,” she suggested, taking the empty tray away with one hand while encouraging him to lie down with the other.

“I can’t sleep,” he sighed, but he didn’t fight her touch. She was too tempting, too impossible to resist, not for any length of time. And he was too weak, without lyrium, without any power over her. He couldn’t even stand on his own two feet, much less stand her torment. “Maker have mercy on my soul,” he whispered, his lidded eyes watching her movements halfway across the room, unaware that she could hear him—unaware that he had spoken out loud, “But if you asked, I would kiss you, if only you were Peredura.”

He saw her move, a shift of shadow, her head tilting, and he knew—Blessed Andraste how consummately he knew!—she was looking at him, over her shoulder, peeking from behind those overgrown bangs. A perfect imitation of Peredura. “I can’t stand it!” he groaned, his face scrunched up in pain, his eyes squeezing shut against the vision, his fist clutching the comforter with frustrated fatigue.

“What is it?” Immediately she was by his side, her cool hands on his face, his shoulders, his chest. “Did you eat too much too quickly? Are you going to be sick again? Cullen, tell me: what’s wrong?”

“It’s you!” he ground out between his teeth. “Fine. I’ll admit it. I look at you and I see her. And your imitation is too perfect, too real, I could almost believe you were her. But she wouldn’t torment me like this. She wouldn’t tempt me with lyrium—the one thing that would ease my suffering—keeping it just beyond my reach. She wouldn’t keep looking at me that way, over her shoulder, with her hair hiding her face!” He pushed himself up onto one elbow again, staring at her, spittle flying from his lips as he finished, “Be gone, demon! Leave me!”

He collapsed, exhausted, back down onto the comforter. He closed his eyes and lost himself in prayer. It had always worked before, closing his eyes and praying; and when he was finished the demon would be gone for a time. He knew it wasn’t a permanent fix, but it would grant him some peace, give him a reprieve, let him garner his strength for the next attack.

“…though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence…”

Something familiar in those words struck a chord within Peredura. She listened to his prayers for a time, but it felt too much like she was intruding into something private, personal, between him and the Maker. She got up as quietly as she could and slipped away to puzzle through her own thoughts. He had said he thought her a demon of desire, that she was using Peredura's habits to torture him. She'd have to be careful, watch herself, and not do those actions that caused him pain, that exacerbated his anguish, like looking at him through her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the flames in the hearth, fearful that this may prove too hard for her.

Fear, however, had other ideas. He crawled up to Cullen with his head bowed, hesitantly, timidly, but when the man didn’t appear to notice his presence, Fear grew emboldened. He stepped onto the comforter, walked right up to Cullen’s hip and sat down. Still his minor misdemeanor was going unnoticed, and in looking over his shoulder he saw his partner was lost in her thoughts, staring into the fire and hugging herself. He turned back and gave a soft whine, hoping to get Cullen’s attention, but the prayer continued uninterrupted. Fear decided he had pushed the limits enough, that it would be all right if Cullen didn’t scratch his ear, as long as he could stay on the soft blanket. He curled up against Cullen’s side, his muscular body thumping Cullen’s ribs, and immediately the intensity behind the whispered prayers eased. Fear lifted his eyes and perked his short ears, expectant and alert for any change, but when Cullen took a deep and relaxed breath in sleep, Fear knew things would be all right.

* * *

He was floating.

He was floating on a sea of clouds, their soft and billowy surfaces buoyant beneath his weight.

Every once in a while there was a breath of wind, something gentle, that stroked his heated skin like a lover’s caress.

He must be dreaming, he thought to himself, dreaming of that life that comes after death, that journey to the Maker’s side, that blissful realm of aether and serenity.

Another breath of wind, a little stronger now that he was beginning to expect it, brushed against his cheek. He turned towards it and caught the scent of lilacs. Home. Of course paradise would smell of home, of things good, of things peaceful and comforting. He inhaled the scent deeply, allowed it to fill his lungs and from there permeate every atom of his corporeal form.

Every iota of his soul.

The vinous breeze came again, stronger, and he felt the softness of the clouds brush against his skin, the touch so light and gentle it almost tickled. He relaxed into the scent, felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh as it slid down the length of his arm, cooling the fever, cleansing the stains.

“Are you awake?” a voice called softly, feminine and familiar. His mother, perhaps? Or his older sister? Someone whom he cared about, someone whom he wanted to hear speak to him, someone whom he missed. “It’s only that, well, you’re smiling,” she continued, and he kept his eyes closed, indulging in the tender tones. “I suppose you could be dreaming,” she allowed as the breeze began to stroke down his chest, “A nice dream, for a change. I shouldn’t wake you, then, I guess. Maker knows, you’ve earned it.”

There was a sound, like the rustling of leaves, or the sigh of fabric. Then the breeze returned, taking up where it had left off in the center of his chest and blowing down his other side…

No, something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a breeze, he realized, as every so often he heard the tinkling sound of dripping water. His eyes opened, tiny slits all but hidden by his eyelashes, and saw a pair of leather-clad knees before him. Shadows moved across his limited vision, long and lithe like a limb. Then a hand picked up his own, lifted his arm, and the cool sensation ran down the length from his shoulder to his wrist. Someone was carefully and tenderly washing him with a small cloth.

“But I am lonely,” she sighed, so quietly he almost didn’t hear, “And I could really use a sign that you’re getting better.”

Getting better, he wondered to himself, had he been ill? Who was this woman, this kindhearted soul, nursing him back to health? Why was she lonely? He opened his eyes a little wider, trying to see as far as her face, but she had turned aside, hiding behind long curtains of brown hair. He knew that hair, knew that shoulder, and his lips parted with his breath. “…Pear…”

She hesitated—had she heard him?—before she very deliberately turned to face him fully. No, it wasn’t Peredura, she would have peeked over her shoulder at him with her untutored coyness. But, Andraste preserve him, it did look like her, and he desperately yearned to see her. Had his imagination, famished and fevered, conjured her likeness, imposed it over whoever or whatever was taking care of him?

“Maybe you are awake,” she smiled at him, “Or awake, but thinking you’re dreaming? Doesn’t matter, I suppose, as long as it’s restful.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t speak at all, but stared at her as if his eyes would feast on her vision for a hundred days.

She drew close once more, her hand reaching out to touch his face. Through her fingers he could sense the stubble growing there, thick around his lips and chin, sparse across his cheek. He never could grow a decent beard, other than that damned goatee. But she was speaking again, calling to him, “Can you hear me? Do you know me?” Her brown eyes grew darker, deeper, trying to draw him into their depths.

In answer, he brought his hand up to cover hers.

“Do you think…” her words stopped suddenly, her bottom lip caught between two rows of sadistic and sharp teeth. “It would be better for you, if you were lying in bed, rather than the floor. Do you think you can help me help you up?”

He didn’t know what to say, his brain too sluggish and mired in tranquility. All he wished to do was lie there and stare at her. Peredura…

“Come on,” she urged, “Let’s get you into bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.” Her hand left his cheek, sliding out of his grasp, but her touch didn’t leave him. She gripped his shoulders, shifting around to brace his back as she heaved him into a sitting position. He tried to help, but his arms flailed off course, his hands clutched ineffectively at empty air, his legs wobbled beneath his weight. She ended up doing most of the work, not so much helping him into bed as propping him up and tipping him onto the mattress. It worked after a fashion, and between them they managed a sort of controlled fall, but he did let out a mild grunt when he landed and rolled onto his back.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! Are you hurt? How’s your stomach? You’re not going to be sick again, are you?”

A sigh escaped his lips as he settled into the soft mattress. The sheets were cool and held the same lilac scent as the water she had been cleaning him with, adding to his overall contentment. He laid a hand across his chest, felt his heart beating, and seriously considered closing his eyes for a few moments.

“Oh, ah, your tunic, about that, um,” she chewed her lip again, so like Peredura, “I had to take it off. You, well, I guess the bread was too much for you, or something, and you were sick, almost choking on it, got it all over the place, the blanket, your clothes, I had to cut off your tunic so I could get you cleaned up…”

That lip became captured by her teeth again, tortured and masticated until it bled. He didn’t want to see that, didn’t want to see her hurt, so his hand lifted off his chest to touch her face. His thumb pulled the skin on her chin until her lip popped free. Then his fingers moved, burrowing into the long, soft strands of shiny brown hair, feeling the stub of her ear. He saw her flinch, felt her try to pull away and look off to the side. But she didn’t leave him, didn’t remove his hand. Instead she turned those beautiful doe-like eyes back to his.

His hand grew heavy, almost too heavy to keep in place. He pulled it downwards, just a little, encouraging her head to come with it.

He wanted to kiss her.

She was so close now. It was almost comical the way first one eye would go crossways, then the other, as she looked back and forth between his eyes. If this was Peredura, if this truly was Peredura before him and not some demon or dream…

He wondered why he was predisposed to doubt his senses.

He could taste her breath in the air as she drew nearer. It was vanilla with a touch of molasses, reminding him of a sweet. There was also the scent of lilacs coming from her hand braced on the pillow beside his head. The smells were overpowering, intoxicating, overwhelming him and drowning him and… he couldn’t stay awake… too exhausted… too weakened… too sick. She didn’t deserve this. She deserved a proper kiss, by someone who loved her, someone who could hold her, someone who… wasn’t about to… to pass out…

“…Pear…”

Peredura was shaking, though this time it wasn’t from the cold breeze blowing through her chambers. She had been sure—she had been so fucking sure—that Cullen had been about to kiss her. But he was too ill, and his hand had dropped from her hair at the same time his eyes rolled up into the back of his head.

Now she loomed over him, unable to move though no longer held captive by either his hand or his gaze. Hating herself for doing it, knowing she’d hate herself more if she never made the attempt, she lowered her face a little further and pecked his cheek lightly with her lips, at the last moment daring herself to touch the corner of his mouth. The short hairs of his beard were stiff and poked her tender lip, almost making her repent taking advantage of Cullen’s vulnerable state.

Almost.

“Come here, Fear,” she called quietly, and the puppy happily and enthusiastically jumped onto the bed. “Don’t get used to this,” she warned him, at the same time negating herself as she scratched his short fur, “But he’s better, calmer, when you’re near. Stay by him for the rest of the night. All right?”

He didn’t bark in answer, somehow knowing the loud noise would not be appreciated, but he did pant in agreement. He sprawled on the sheets next to Cullen, stretching his length bonelessly beside the Commander’s, burrowing slightly into the mattress.

“That’s a good boy,” Peredura sighed, standing up to move away. She was going to be cold for the rest of the night, curled up on the couch without Fear, but she knew Cullen needed the mabari more than she. She wrapped up the blanket and the mess, and took the smelly bundle down the stairs to leave outside for the servants to collect. So far she had managed to keep people out of her chambers, keep anyone from discovering Cullen or learning what he was going through. This was embarrassing and personal, and she knew he wouldn’t want his difficulties advertised all over Skyhold.

As Cassandra had informed her: templars never made their suffering known.

After she climbed back up the stairs, her eyes automatically were drawn to him. He appeared as before, peaceful, exhausted, but one hand was now lying on Fear’s side. Maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself to feel a little hope, that they had turned the corner, that things would get better.

They needed to; she was beginning to run out of excuses.

* * *

Peredura was lying on her stomach in front of the fire, pages full of careful yet unschooled markings spread around her. The book that Mother Giselle had given her was open to some random hymn, the words unintelligible to her, but she painstakingly copied the text anyway. It wasn’t much, and she supposed it was childish to assume that somehow all the words would suddenly start making sense if she simply kept at it…

But she was bored. And it was a lot more productive than sitting and staring at Cullen while he slept. She nibbled at her lower lip, thinking over the past few days, and had to grudgingly admit she had probably gotten in over her head. In hindsight, the whole chaining-Cullen-in-her-room-while-he-went-through-withdrawal was not the best idea she'd ever had, the logistics proving far more difficult than she had anticipated. She probably should have chained him up somewhere away from Skyhold. She probably should have gotten someone to help her, someone like Cassandra who already understood his plight, or The Iron Bull who could overpower him if he became too violent. But it was too late now, too embarrassing to try to explain, too difficult to fix. She and Cullen had to endure this, but hopefully there wasn't much left.

She looked down at the last row of indecipherable lines and curves and swore. Somewhere among the way, she had jumped from one line of text to the next, and messed up whatever phrase she had been copying. She drew a heavy slash through her mistake and started the first line over again.

“You shouldn’t encourage dominant behavior.”

The voice startled her. She snapped her head up, but couldn’t quite see around the mattress to where Cullen was lying. It had to be him, however, as no one else was in the room. She pushed herself onto her knees and craned her neck to see him, lifting a groggy head and blinking groggy eyes as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. “You’re awake! Oh, ah,” she softened her voice, unsure if he was really awake or having another one of his innumerable delusions. She stood up slowly, brushing off her hands and knees, and asked quietly, “How are you feeling?”

He had managed to wedge himself up as far as his elbows. “I’m fine. And don’t change the subject, young lady. We were discussing your handling of your hound. Just because he isn’t a dog, doesn’t mean he should be treated like a person.”

She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

“You’re letting Fear sleep on your bed,” he said slowly, enunciating each syllable. “I can smell him on the sheets. It’s a bad habit, one you should put a stop to, before he grows to his full size.” He was trying to sit up, struggling to brace his arms beneath him and grimacing every time he clenched his abdominals. She started forwards, intending to help him, but he waved her off with a hand, falling halfway onto the pillows when he did so.

“Oh, right, well,” she hummed, not sure if she was more discomfited over his reprimand or his refusal of her aid. She gripped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers just to have something to do, and explained, “I, er, I didn’t, well, yes, I mean, I did tell him to jump up onto the bed. But it was only for your benefit. You were calmer when he was nearby.”

“That’s no excuse,” he shook his head before her words fully sank in. “Train your puppy, from day one, the way he should behave. Be consistent. You don’t have to be cruel, but you must be firm. Otherwise he’ll take advantage of you at every opportunity. Understand?” He finally settled himself against the pillows and pierced her with his hard, hazel glare.

“Yes, Ser,” she felt her cheeks burn and her heart drop into her boots.

He saw the disheartened look on her face, and perhaps he felt a tiny bit of remorse for having scolded her. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Oh, um, I think this afternoon it was Solas who was going to walk him. Everyone’s been taking turns, watching Fear for me and taking him out for exercise, since I’m unable to.”

“And why can’t you?” he pressed, his earlier remorse already forgotten. “He’s your mabari, your partner. You should be the one handling his training as well as his free time.”

Damn, but Cullen seemed dense today. It might be a good sign, or it might be due to his withdrawal, or he might not be in his right mind at this moment. At any rate, she decided to explain—again. “That’s a little hard right now. I’ve got to keep people out of here, don’t I, while you’re, er…” she waved her hand at him, “Indisposed. So I told Josephine that I was sick with a cold, though by now everyone thinks it’s something a little more serious, because it’s taken so long, and there was that mess on the comforter, and then I won’t let anyone in here… But, anyway, people have been very understanding, very helpful, sending me sweets to tempt my appetite, and lots of warm broth, and nearly everyone’s leant a hand with Fear.”

“Oh,” he sighed, his brow furrowed, “I see.” Actually, he didn’t see, not quite, his fuzzy mind having trouble getting into gear. He could vaguely remember why he had come to Peredura’s chambers, but what happened last night was taking its time coming back to him. “Ah, you said I was calmer with Fear on the bed?” He asked, hoping for a little clarification.

“Oh, yes, you were,” she assured him, her eyes peeking at him from behind her bangs. Just as suddenly she got a look on her face like she had done something wrong. “Um, excuse me, I shouldn’t have, I mean, oh!” She cleared her throat, giving her head a shake to move her bangs out of the way and lifted her chin to look at him fully. He had no idea why she had acted like she had done something wrong—he liked the way she peeked at him—but her words continued, “During your delirium, you were calmer whenever the air was moving, or Fear was beside you. I thought it best, to let him up on the bed, even if he shouldn’t be there.” She shrugged, “I was just trying to make things easier for you.”

He could feel the breeze, the cool and moving air feeling good against his skin, and reassuring him that he could continue breathing. “Yes, well,” he stalled for time, trying to put his finger on what exactly was bothering him. He scratched at an itch on his side, his brow furrowing deeper. “I see. Very thoughtful of you. Er, how long have I been here?”

“Let me think, it was the day I got back from Haven… right, you’ve been here three nights and almost three full days.”

Three days, he repeated, this time to himself. He didn’t remember any of it, not really. He rubbed a hand over his face and felt the growth on his cheeks and chin. He could allow, there was enough beard there to warrant that many days, but…

“Are you gonna be sick again?”

“What?” he asked, jerked out of his thoughts by her question.

“You looked like you were going to, well, never mind. Are you hungry? Would you like anything?”

“No, I… yes, thank you,” he answered distractedly. He was still trying to puzzle through how he had lost so much time. It seemed to him, only one night should have passed, and yet… “What time is it?”

“Don’t know, exactly, late afternoon, almost evening,” she shrugged. She was standing in front of the fire, ladling something out of a pot and into a cup. “The sun’s just about to go behind the mountains, but there’s still some time before nightfall. Here, I’ve been keeping some broth warm for you. Would you want to try some bread again? I’m only asking because, well, the last time you tried to eat something, it sort of…” her words trailed off and she made a motion with her hand, imitating something coming up from her stomach and out of her mouth.

He knew she meant he had been sick, and instinctively rubbed at his sore stomach. He had noticed the ache in his abdominals when he sat up, but now he was noticing something else. “Maker’s breath! What happened to my clothes?”

She felt her cheeks burst into bright crimson, but she determinedly lifted her chin, a cup of broth in one hand and a warm roll in the other, and walked back to the bed. “Kaffas, but you make it sound like I’ve stripped you. You still have your leggings on, for the record, but your tunic, well, we’ve been over this three times already,” she gave a weak sort of laugh, embarrassed and really not wanting to say it again. Risking a glance up, she saw Cullen glaring at her, hard, the look he liked to use on his greenest recruits. Apparently he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “Right. Fourth time’s a charm, or something like that. When you got sick the other night, you…” she stopped herself as she handed him the food, thinking that perhaps now was not the time to go into details, “Um, let’s just say, things got messy, especially your tunic. I had to remove it; it was fairly well soiled and I couldn’t get you cleaned up so long as you were wearing it. And with the chain still in place, I had to cut it off, your tunic,” she gestured at the chain on his wrist. “But don’t worry about it. I mean, I already got you a clean change of clothing, thinking that you might want one by the time this is all finished. It’s over there, by my desk,” she thumbed over her shoulder to the desk. “I’d get it for you, but, well, it would be kind of hard for you to put it on right now.”

He barely heard her last words, his eyes having flown to the desk when she mentioned it. To where his armor lay neatly stacked. To that damnable blue bottle illuminated by a last ray of sunlight. It took every ounce of willpower—almost all his physical strength—to pull his eyes away.

Apparently she hadn’t noticed his distress. She had retreated to the foot of the bed, sitting down to keep him company while he ate his meager meal. He didn’t look at her, his eyes on his hands holding the food, one wrist still encased within the shackle. He could remember putting it on, the feeling of revulsion as the cold metal wrapped around his flesh, how he’d had to do it quickly—without thinking—or he would have lost the nerve. He also remembered what she said, how she explained the reasons behind her wanting him restrained.

And how her own tale of addiction had filled the room, sucked out the air and light and life and…

“Cullen?”

He cleared his throat, coming back to himself. “Ah, thank you, Peredura, for all you’ve done for me, but do you think we could unlock this now?” He lifted his hand, cup and all, and rattled the chain suggestively.

She didn’t answer right away, but looked at him closely, her dark brown eyes a mystery, her thoughts and reason beyond his comprehension. “I’m sorry, Cullen, but I don’t think so, not quite yet. Yes, you seem to be coherent and have come back to yourself, and your physical symptoms are over with, but..” she paused to bite her lip, her hair falling forwards, making her have to peek at him from behind her long bangs.

“Stop doing that!” he scolded, and knew he had overreacted when she blinked soulfully at him.

She sputtered and spurted a few times before she could string words together somewhat coherently, “I… I’m sorry… I know you don’t like it… through my hair… when I look at you, I mean… I’ve been trying not to…”

Now it was his turn to spurt in confusion, “What?”


	13. Chains (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.

“What?” Peredura and Cullen stared at each other from opposite ends of the bed, identical looks of confusion on their faces.

The next moment they were talking, both of them, their sounds stumbling over each other, trying to explain, neither of them sure how to put their thoughts into words. It was Cullen who finally lifted a hand, still holding a roll, to stop both their sputtering. “Just… wait a moment.”

She snapped her mouth closed and blinked at him.

In the silence that followed, he took a few breaths, trying to organize his thoughts, the beginnings of a headache forming behind his temples. “I didn’t mean to shout at you,” he began, feeling his way carefully through his words as he went, “I only wanted you to stop chewing your lip. You bite it so much, it’s about to start bleeding again.”

She looked at him for a moment as a faint shade of pink began to tint her cheeks, before she dropped her face, staring at her knee, her hair falling forwards. “I thought you meant, I mean, never mind, but you did keep pulling my lip free, a lot, over the past few days. I’ve kind of been wondering why you did it.”

“I did what?”

“You kept pulling at my lip,” she lifted her eyes without moving her head, the soft brown orbs batting at him from within their curtain of overgrown bangs. “I wasn’t sure, with everything else that was going on, what you meant by doing that, or if you meant anything…”

“I…” Cullen swallowed thickly, sure the sound echoed through the entire room. He could remember, so many times he’d seen her lip abused, and the urges he felt, the obsession he suffered as a symptom of his withdrawal, and he wondered aloud, “I didn’t kiss you, did I?”

Peredura dropped her eyes as her face burst into flames, thinking of how many times he had said—in his delirium over the past few days—that he wanted to kiss her. In a rare moment of impish impulsiveness, she thought of how tempting it would be to tease him, to let him think that he had kissed her. Or even better, admit to the kiss she had stolen from him. But the mischievous moment passed, and she answered honestly. “No…”

“Thank the Maker,” he sighed, his voice overflowing with relief. Immediately he regretted it, thinking of how his statement could be misconstrued. He stared at his cup of broth, unable to meet her gaze, feeling his own blush burn his cheeks as he tried to excuse his slip of the tongue, “I mean, that would be highly inappropriate, for me to kiss you, when I’m the Commander of your forces, a member of your personal staff, an advisor, I shouldn’t… we shouldn’t…” He decided it might be best of he simply stopped and changed the subject. “What was it you thought I meant, something about your hair?” He took a bite of the roll just to have something to do, and perhaps to keep his mouth out of trouble for a while.

“Oh, ah,” she started to bite her lip, thought better of it, and let it go free. She didn’t know Cullen hadn’t seen the act, as both of them were studying something suddenly interesting on their own laps, unable to meet the other’s gaze. “You thought I was a desire demon.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Peredura imagined she could see the look on his face, stricken, shocked, disgusted, ashamed. She couldn’t look up to confirm, however, deciding instead to sputter through an explanation. “You didn’t mean it, I know that, it was only part of your delusions, sometimes you thought you were in Kinloch, so I know you didn’t mean anything by it, I know it was part of the withdrawal, so it’s all right, with me, but you would get upset whenever I acted like myself, I mean whenever you thought the desire demon was acting like Peredura, so I tried not to do the things I would normally do, and one of the things that upset you frequently was looking at you through my hair, that in particular would set you off, and I thought that was what you told me to stop doing, just now, when instead you were saying I shouldn’t bite my lip…”

Cullen couldn’t speak, partly from the shocking words coming from her, partly because he had a mouthful of food. After her words trailed away, he finally managed to swallow, only to regret it. He could feel the bread hitting his stomach, the organ twisting and convulsing around the substance, trying to remember after days of starvation how to digest food. He had to move, to do something, anything, to get his mind off of the thought of that single bite coming back on him because his own body couldn’t remember how to…

He swung his legs off the edge the bed so suddenly, he made her gasp.

“Cullen, what’s wrong? You look a little green.”

“I’m fine,” he panted, sitting there, the roll and broth forgotten as he struggled with what she had said. He had been lost, out of his head, for three days. Three days where he could have said anything, done anything. Three days he had called her a demon, admitting his desire for her. What other secrets had slipped out? “We should never have done this.”

“No, Cullen,” she argued, her hand reaching towards him, “It’s working. We’re almost through it. Just a little longer, and it’ll all be worth it. Trust me.”

“Trust you,” he repeated, staring across his shoulder at her without seeing her. He could feel his patience wear thin, feel the shackle bite into his flesh, and it aggravated his anger, “I have trusted you, I’ve been trusting you since I came here the other night. I’ve done nothing but trust you, put my faith and my life into your hands. I’ve let you chain me up like a hound. I’ve let you strip me of my armor—of half my clothing! I’ve been out of my head so much, Maker only knows what sort of advantages you could have taken of me! I’ve sat here and stared at that vial knowing what it is, knowing you’re daring me to ask about it, testing me, tempting me…!”

His tirade stopped, seeing what he had done, what his words had wrought. Without looking he could feel his leggings were damp with the broth he had spilled, his other fist completely destroying the roll. But worst of all was Peredura; he could finally see through his anger and take note of her condition. She was sitting there, hanging her head, biting her lip all the harder, and what little he could see of her face had grown red and splotchy. He’d hurt her feelings—he’d yelled at her and unnecessarily hurt her feelings. Her, Peredura, the one who had done nothing but help him.

Peredura felt her cheeks burn even hotter than before, feeling guilt for having taken advantage of Cullen just as he had supposed—remembering that kiss she stole. Her wallowing in shame was broken off, her confession and apology forgotten, when he suddenly moved. She leaned back with a start but didn’t leave the bed, refusing to run away at the first hint of trouble, trying to remain strong for him.

Cullen stood up from the bed, the cup falling to the floor, his fist still closed around the crumbs. He turned back and caught her peeking at him timidly, full of fear and doubt, but remaining far too close to him. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to grip her by the shoulders, dangle her in front of him, and shake some sense into her silly little head! Yet he couldn’t, not when she looked at him with her deep brown eyes, softening with tears and compassion and empathy. Frustrated, hating himself, hating his weakness, he stalked away, trying to get as far as he could—since she refused to run—before he did something he could never be forgiven…

The chain jerked his wrist, stopping him, keeping him from escaping, and jarring his memory. Images flashed within his mind, jumbled and superimposed on each other: ripping her jacket, chasing her, Fear jumping on him, the chain jerking him off his feet, her body going limp beneath his power…

A dark pit of dread settled in his stomach, and this time it wasn’t due to food. “I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” Cullen was staring at Peredura, a look of self-loathing and horror etched deeply into the lines on his face, his hands held out before him as if he were mimicking his words. “I… held my arm… around your neck and… squeezed…”

She was in the same position she’d been in when he had paced away from her. She had felt the whole bed shake when he had reached the end of the chain. The piece of furniture held, but the loud creak of protest had given her some small cause for alarm. She had to calm him down, and was ready and shaking her head even before he finished. “It was only a bruise, and easily healed with a potion, see? No harm done. Besides, Fear did more damage to your arm, getting you to let go, than anything you did to me.”

“But… I almost broke your hand… and your neck, I…”

“No, Cullen, listen to me,” she got off the bed and approached him, cautiously; without Fear there she was taking an awful chance, but she trusted her instincts. Right then he was focused on blaming himself, and he wasn’t calling her a demon—two things she took for good signs. “Listen. It wasn’t you who did that; do you understand? You were suffering a delusion. You thought I was a desire demon, and Fear a, well, fear demon. So of course you fought us.”

He blinked at her, wanting to believe her, needing to believe her, but the guilt was overwhelming. “I did things. I hurt you. It was foolish, of both of us, to risk your neck like this,” he paused to give a derisive laugh, “Literally.”

“It was my neck to risk,” she countered.

“Stop!” he commanded, “Don’t make light of this. Don’t excuse me. You should be questioning me, my resolve, my motives, my commitment.” He turned away, making a sound of disgust, and tried once more to explain it to her. “You don’t understand, do you, what it is I’m dealing with? You’re in over your head. You thought, since you’ve dealt with addiction, that you could help me with mine. But this opeigh you were addicted to, it was nothing like lyrium! Taking it didn’t make you stronger! And being without it hasn’t made you less!”

He took a step towards her, feeling slight satisfaction when she flinched again, but she stubbornly wouldn’t move out of his reach. She should, she had to, before he lost control… “What will it take to make you understand? What if I had hurt you, given you a serious injury, and you couldn’t get to help in time? What if… what if I had killed you? Where would the Inquisition be without you? Or Thedas?” He turned away and started pacing once more, reminding her of a caged lion. Instinctively she glanced behind her to see how far she would have to go to be out of his reach.

“I should have never put you through this!” he continued. “I would have been better off chaining myself in my own chamber,” he rattled his wrist, “Or locking myself in a cell in the dungeons, rather than take the risk of hurting you! I could never live with myself, if I ever allowed anything to happen to you! I would be… the Inquisition would be lost without you,” he quickly corrected himself, trying to camouflage the embarrassing statement. Maker’s breath, what he had nearly said…

“I was wrong,” he started again, trying to distract them both from his slip. “It is obvious that this cannot be done! It may very well be that I’ve gotten over the worst of it, physically speaking, but I will never be free of lyrium. There remains this, this, this ability, separate and a part of me, deep inside, that needs lyrium. It’s starved, and I can feel it trying to take over my body and break this chain and drink that flask…” he shook his finger towards her desk.

“No, Cullen, please,” she clutched at his arms, pulling his hand down, “You’re not giving up. Not now. You’ve come too far. I know you can do this. I know it’s hard, but…”

“You know nothing!”

He threw her. It was easy, even half-starved and weakened, he was still several times stronger than Peredura. He shoved at her chest, the strength of her hands gripping him no match for the strength of his arms pushing her. She all but flew across the room to slam into the back of her desk before landing on the floor. The force shook the items on top, the bottle wobbling itself right off the edge. She looked up and reached out to grab it just in time, jabbing a finger in the process, but keeping the bottle intact.

The room grew quiet, dangerously quiet. Peredura didn’t look at him, couldn’t, as she carefully held the bottle in one hand while she struggled to her feet. She leaned against the desk, her free hand pressed against her ribs, as she tried to catch her breath. She wasn’t hurt, not badly, maybe bruised, but the damage that was done wasn’t physical. She set the bottle back into place before she turned towards him.

Cullen was lost. She could see it in his eyes, in the sad and self-loathing expression on his face, in the exhausted slump of his shoulders, in the way he couldn’t meet her gaze, in the dark and defeated tone of his voice. “It cannot be done.”

“…Cullen…”

“Now do you see? Now do you understand? I can’t control myself. I can’t trust myself.”

“Cullen.”

“I’ve hurt you. And I’ll hurt you again. There is no forgiveness for such actions, for my actions… for me.”

“What are you saying?” she demanded, tired of being his ally. Perhaps, like he had suggested she do with Fear, perhaps she needed to be more firm with him, act as the Inquisitor—his superior—rather than his friend.

“Unlock me, and I’ll leave the Inquisition.”

“No,” she stated firmly, her hands crossed over her chest, her legs braced shoulder-width apart.

“There’s nothing else to be done.” He finally looked at her, and she repented her wish earlier that he would, the haunted look in his eyes too terrible for the light of day. “There’s nothing that can forgive my actions.”

“Forgiveness?” she pressed, “Is that what concerns you, forgiveness? What is it you think you’ve done that can’t be forgiven? What terrible sin have you committed, because I can tell you right now, Cullen,” she moved in close, daring to stand toe-to-toe with him, “I can trump it!”

Her words were angry, harsh, and full of emotion. He could see it on her face, her guilt, her self-blame; that was why she chewed her lip so much, apprehension over her own sins. The thought caught him off guard. He had no idea why she felt guilty, what she might have done to warrant such self-damning behavior. He stared at her in confusion, something of his thoughts showing on his features because she started talking again.

“You don’t remember,” she shook her head, turning aside with a soft sigh, “I suppose not. Doesn’t matter. I never really wanted to tell anyone, anyway.” She walked behind the desk, hugging herself tight, hating the way she seemed unable to feel warm. She faced her bookshelves, the four slim volumes lying on them looking so lonely. It was all right, she told herself, if Cullen didn’t remember her confession. After all, they were focusing on his problems right now, not hers. But then he did remember.

“Blood magic,” he said softly. “Vicici used you to perform blood magic. No, Peredura, you were not to blame for what happened while you were a slave.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“You were a child…”

“Only for part of it.”

“You were drugged, coerced, under duress…”

“I was a willing participant!” she shouted back, her temper flaring as his flagged. She marched around the desk, her face lifted up as she vented all her pent up anger and impotence at him. “I had a lot more control over my actions for all those YEARS, than you did during your delirium these past few days. I knew what I was doing. I took a knife and I sliced into my own flesh, reopened my scars, spilled my own blood, knowing what Vicici was going to do with it, knowing what sort of horrors and abominations he was going to commit, things so dreadful I can never speak of them, and never forget them! Does any of that sound familiar?”

Her whole body heaved with her breaths, daring him to answer, daring him to excuse her. He remained silent, but she did not, walking towards him slowly once more. “I watched people being tortured to death and felt no remorse. Each and every time he performed blood magic, I allowed the power to come through me. Never once did I stop him. I could have. I could have taken my own life, rather than let things continue as they were, but I didn’t. I bled and I took opeigh so I could forget those things that I let happen just so I could have more opeigh…”

It was a circular hell she had been trapped within, caught in an endless cycle of blood magic and opeigh and back again.

“No, opeigh does not make me stronger when I take it,” she agreed with his statement from earlier, “But it does change me. It creates a world I can live with, one where I don’t have to feel guilty for my actions. One where I don’t have to hide from my past. Since I’ve stopped taking it, I can’t look at my reflection and feel good about the person I am. I KNOW how much easier my life would be if I started taking opeigh again, but I also know I cannot do such a thing. I have to stay strong. I have to stay away from opeigh. And not just for Thedas or the Inquisition,” she was right in front of him again, far too close into his personal space, but he couldn’t move, “But for myself.”

He stared at her, barely able to catch his breath. He saw, in her hands, the blue bottle from her desk. She lifted it up, gestured with it, and waited for him to speak. To ask about it. To reach for it. To do something—anything…!

He couldn’t.

There was a knock on the lower door, and an expectant bark quickly following. “That’s quite enough of that, Fear,” Solas’ voice floated through the wood. “She may be resting; we wouldn’t want to disturb her, now, would we?”

Fear barked again, sounding as if he very much would like nothing more than to disturb his partner.

Still Cullen refused to move, refused to speak, refused to make any sort of answer to her unspoken question. After Fear’s third bark, she turned away, her face slightly disappointed, and set the bottle back on the desk. “I have to get the door.”

Cullen stared at the bottle. He couldn’t have taken his eyes off of it of his own will if his life depended upon it. He had wanted to take the bottle from her. He could feel the tension in his muscles, still trembling even though the lyrium was once more out of his reach. Maker, he prayed silently in his heart, how could he endure this?!?!

Something nudged his leg. When he didn’t respond right away, a pair of overlarge paws planted themselves on his thigh, staggering him and knocking his gaze off the bottle. He looked down finally to see Fear’s face, the puppy’s tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth and his eyes bright with life and love. Slowly sound and light and thought returned to Cullen, opening the world to him, a world beyond lyrium.

“I think I could handle something a little more substantial than broth for supper, yes,” Peredura’s voice floated up the stairs like a gentle mist.

“Good. I was hoping you would say that. I took the liberty of bringing a tray, just in case. Shall I…”

“Oh, thank you, I’ll take it.” There was the clatter of plates and cups.

“Are you sure you can handle this? I could bring it up the stairs for you, at least.”

“No, no, Solas, my chamber, it’s kind of messy right now. I’d rather not, well, let anyone see it.”

“Very well, Inquisitor. Shall I inform Josephine and Leliana that you will be down in the morning for that meeting you’ve been postponing?”

“Um, make it the afternoon. I think by then I should feel up to making the climb down the tower and back up again.”

“Of course. If there’s nothing else I can do for you? No? Then I shall say good night.”

“Good night, Solas, and thank you again. For everything.”

The door closed, her steps sounded on the stairs, the tray rattled, and then Peredura’s head popped into view behind the railing. She didn’t look at Cullen, either too disappointed in his actions or too focused on her task. She walked around the hearth to set the tray on the bed. “Let’s see what Solas brought for supper. Maybe there’s something in this you might like to try eating.”

Cullen approached her from behind, but she didn’t turn around to face him, letting him have the advantage, trusting Fear to let her know if it wasn’t safe. It was safe. She felt the heat from Cullen’s body as he came to stand beside her. He didn’t speak, perhaps he couldn’t, so she let him have more time. Without turning around she picked up a piece of fruit and brushed it against her jacket. “You can have the apple, but I’m taking the pear; they’re my favorite.” She took a bite and stepped away, towards the hearth.

He watched her retreat, his hands clenching into fists. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to say, that would grant him freedom from the chains. He wanted to throttle her again, the frustration building inside him like a tidal wave. The next moment he felt drained, defeated, and more lost than before. Fear gave him push, away from the bed and towards the hearth, towards Peredura, towards the papers spread out over the floor. He looked down at the hound, who panted at him as if he was saying something. He looked back at her and her little mess. Clearing his throat, he picked up the apple and started after her.

“I believe, er, I had offered, that is, if you wanted, I mean…” His words trailed away when she turned to look at him, a curiously confused look on her face. Instead he blurted out, “I could teach you to read. Now. Well, not now, not right away, it takes time, but we could start now, this evening, if you’re willing… Why do these things always sound better in my head?”

She smiled at him, her shy little smile, before she tilted her head and it slipped behind her long brown hair. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he agreed quickly. “Good. Well. Let’s get started, shall we? What hymn are you copying?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed, picking up the book and flipping through the pages randomly. “But, um, there is one I’d like to learn first, if I could.”

“Of course. Which one is it?”

“I don't know the name of it, but in the mountains,” she handed over the book, thinking he’d have a better chance of finding the right one, “Mother Giselle started singing one evening, and others started singing with her. It was like the whole camp was a part of this… great… single voice. Everyone together. Everyone in unison. Everyone in agreement. But I was left out, because I didn’t know the song. That’s the one I’d like to learn first, so next time I can be a part of that. It was something about the dawn…”

“Yes, I know the one your thinking of,” he answered, sticking the apple in his mouth so he could use both hands to flip through the pages. “Hm, here,” he handed it back, talking around a mouthful of fruit, “The Dawn Will Come. We’ll start there, shall we?”

They walked back to the bed and sat down, the tray off to the side, the book open and on her lap. It was hard for Peredura, not because she had never learned to read, not because Cullen kept eating and talking around mouthfuls of food. It was because every so often his hand would brush hers as he pointed out a letter. Because his thigh would bump hers whenever he shifted on the bed. Because even after all the arguing this evening, he seemed at ease in her presence. Because he was half-dressed, and her eyes kept wandering away from the pages to peek through her bangs at his scars.

She remembered Dorian’s advice, of laying siege to Cullen’s heart, and knew she had to work slowly, gain his trust, nurture his friendship, open his mind to the idea that they not only had some things in common, but some feelings as well…

But damn it this was going to take a long time.

* * *

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Peredura lay on the cushions, huddled beneath a freshly cleaned blanket, her eyes staring unseeing at the back of the couch. Fear was on the bed next to Cullen, something he protested but she and her hound overruled him. She got the feeling Cullen didn’t object too strongly, despite his earlier lecture.

It was late, the two of them having spent the entire evening working through the hymn. Peredura had grown cranky and tired, wanting the words to start making sense right away, and feeling angry and cheated when the letters refused to behave. She huffed to herself, still slightly miffed; why have a letter ‘c’ if all the sounds it could make were already made by other letters? And it was nearly impossible—at least to her way of thinking—to tell which sound it was supposed to make and when. And putting it next to another consonant only added more sounds and confusion…

The bed creaked, startling her from her thoughts. Immediately she was wide awake and focused on Cullen, on Fear, on any sign that something was amiss. Slowly she peeked over her shoulder to see what was happening. In the dim firelight she could see Fear was lying on his belly, his front paws stretched towards Cullen. He didn’t seem too concerned, but he was awake and alert and staring at Cullen.

There was a soft moan, followed by slurred and indistinct words. She knew Cullen was speaking, dreaming, talking in his sleep, and though she couldn’t understand what he was saying, she knew the intent behind his mutterings. She had heard just such pleas, countless times before, while bleeding for Vicici’s magic. She couldn't let him suffer through whatever nightmare he was facing. She threw off the covers and went to the bed to wake him. She touched his shoulder, felt how cold and sweaty his skin was, and gave him a little shake.

“Cullen. Cullen, wake up. It’s only a dream. Cullen!”

She nearly landed on the floor, she had to pull back so suddenly. Cullen woke with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed, his eyes wide and unseeing, his heart racing so strongly she could feel it though her hand on his shoulder. “Cullen?”

He took a breath, his whole chest heaving with the motion, and choked on a cry. His hand clamped down over hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to use his hold on her to again try to coerce her into getting him the key. But Fear didn’t seem concerned, and Cullen didn’t move to hurt or twist—he only held her close, kept her in contact with him, while he battled off the last wispy shadows of his nightmare.

When his breathing finally eased, when his eyes focused on her face, she offered him a brave little smile. “Better?”

They sat so close to each other, he could feel her breath fanning his skin, brushing against him like a summer breeze. “Yes,” he swallowed, “Thank you.”

“Would you like something to drink? Water, or some ale, perhaps? Something to help you relax?”

“No, that won't work,” he shook his head. “I’ve been having these dreams long enough, ever since…” he stopped, unable to speak it. He had to take three deep breaths before he could continue, “I’ve tried every remedy you could think of, all to no effect. And now they’re worse, since I’ve been weaning myself off of lyrium.”

“But they’re only dreams, you know that, right?”

Again he shook his head, sadly this time, his hand falling away to let her go. “No. They’re not only dreams. Not these.”

He pushed himself up from the bed, feeling the need to walk, to move, to stand at the door and look out over the world. He couldn’t reach it, however, the chain a not-so-subtle reminder that he remained a captive of lyrium, of that little blue bottle that mocked him, sitting serene and innocent on her desk—he refused to allow himself to even glance in that direction. But the desk was beyond his reach, the door even further. Still he yearned for the freedom, for the fresh air, for the vast openness of the mountainous scenery. He made it as far as he could and stared, taking in what was visible through the partially opened door.

Peredura sighed. She kept the balcony doors opened a crack, not too far that the room grew cold, but far enough to make the air move. Yet it was more than air that Cullen needed; she could see that now. She got up and walked around him, walked to the door he was yearning for, and opened it as far as it would go.

Cullen took a deep breath, feeling more than gratitude for Peredura’s perceptiveness. Hungrily his eyes took in the view: the bright pinpricks of light that marred the midnight black sky; the mountains bathed in moonlit snow; the silent and enduring stones of Skyhold so ancient no one knew its true name. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but when he opened them again the view remained.

“I never told anyone what happened at Kinloch,” he admitted quietly. “I couldn’t, not even to my Knight-Commander. Perhaps it’s time I did.”

“Cullen, you don’t have to…”

“I know,” he interrupted her. She had walked back towards him, away from the door, the moonlight silhouetting her gently from behind, a form of softened shadow and muted color. “I think… that’s what will make it easier,” he admitted, taking her hand and stopping her from moving past him, “That is, if you don’t mind…”

“Of course not,” she interrupted him. Her other hand reached up to touch his cheek, the stubble long enough now to start to feel less prickly. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.

“Thank you. I, I need this, I think, if I talk about it, if I share it, that maybe, somehow, it’ll be lessened,” he paused to laugh softly, “If that makes any sense.”

“It does,” she admitted. “It will help to talk about it, to share the guilt and pain with someone else. Trust me.”

He opened his eyes and held her gaze steadily. “I do.”

Cullen pulled his head away from her hand, but held onto her other hand as he turned back to stare outside. “I was serving at the tower in Kinloch. I was so green, had only been a full templar for a year when it happened. The Fifth Blight. Most of the mages were called away to fight. Those that remained, well,” he paused to swallow. “I knew most of them, even liked them well enough, but their leader, Uldred, he changed them. He used the chaos caused by the Blight to his advantage and took over the tower. Every mage that remained became possessed, or blood mages, or abominations. Our Knight-Commander had no choice; he had to seal up the tower, prevent anyone from entering or exiting, to save the citizens in the countryside.

“Unfortunately, not everyone made it out in time,” he continued. “There were nearly a score of us, mostly veterans, a couple of younger ones like myself. Yet we all knew, if we wanted to live, if we wanted to make it out of there, we had to battle our way through the tower to the very top, to Uldred, and kill him. We faced blood mages every step of the way, the horrors and demons they conjured, the evils… We killed everyone we came across, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. We knew: if we stopped, we died; if we fought, we died, but at least then some of us had the chance to make it!

“It was beyond nightmarish,” he kept staring outside, the dim firelight illuminating his profile, the dimmer moonlight suffusing his face, his eyes seeing nothing but Kinloch tower. “But that wasn’t the worst part, not by far. In the end, there were only four of us. We’d made it as far as the Harrowing chamber, but could get no further. We became trapped—somehow—by this magical barrier. We were templars! We should have been able to break through it… But perhaps we were too weak from all our earlier struggles, too long without lyrium, I’m not sure. I only know, we couldn’t break through the magic, we couldn’t even break through the walls, and the air… with four of us trapped in there… the air got stale and close. Then the demons came.”

His voice dropped, filled with suppressed terror, sounding like a man who had been forced to see his worst fear continually for years on end, until the fear became his expected companion, until terror seemed a normal state of mind. Peredura wanted to stop him, her own imagination filling in the details, the scene far too similar to her own past—but she couldn’t stop him. He needed this, he needed to excise the memory, share the pain, before he could finish healing. He’d come too far for her to give up on him now, just because she grew a little uncomfortable. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, reminding him that she was there, that he wasn’t at Kinloch, that it was over and in his past. He felt her, returned the gesture, and continued.

“There were two of them, demons. They… put visions in our heads… turned us against each other… I saw the demons change into two innocent young girls… they put ideas, thoughts into our heads… claimed the other three templars weren’t who they appeared to be… changed them into monsters… abominations… who wanted to hurt the two girls… they begged us for protection… offered a pleasurable reward for killing the others… their clothing slowly disappearing as they came together…

“I knew! I knew it was a trick. My faith was strong—stronger than their lies. I resorted to prayer. I held onto my faith… but the others didn’t. Two of them, Beval and Farris, they… Maker have mercy!” He had to let go, let go of her hand and pace away, the emotions of the memory bringing forward too much energy, too much of the fight or flight instinct, for him to remain still. “…they fell beneath the demons’ power… they started fighting… trying to kill each other… with their bare hands… Annlise saw them… she tried to break them apart…” He paused to look up at Peredura, and she had to use all her willpower not to flinch at the expression on his face. “They turned on her, someone they’d known for years! Then they went back to killing each other.”

He returned to his pacing, granting her a moment to catch her breath and get her own features under control while he continued. “I finally came out of my prayer far enough to hear Annlise’s final cry for help. I saw my brothers, my fellow templars, were falling prey to the demons’ temptation. I thought Annlise dead, and tried to break up the fight between Beval and Farris. They turned on me, too. Knocked me out cold. By the time I came back around, they were dying, each by the other’s hand, and the demons were laughing at them from beyond the barrier.

“I could do nothing for them but watch them drown in their own blood and pray for their souls. Then I heard a sound, over from where Annlise lay. She was still alive, barely, her neck broken, not far enough to kill but…” he shook his head futilely, “We didn’t have any healing potions with us. And I knew none could be found in time. She was dying slowly, suffocating, unable to move or communication her needs. I couldn’t let her suffer like that! I couldn’t! I… I told her what I was going to do, I asked for her forgiveness, and then I finished breaking her neck.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders rolling with the effort, his feet stumbling for a step before he regained his balance. “I’d known Annlise for years, we’d been in training together, and I had to kill her. I don’t know if she understood, if she forgave me, but what choice did I have?!”

Again Peredura was reminded of her own past, this time more recent, of that abominable future where she’d found Cullen overgrown with red lyrium and took his life in an act of mercy.

“I was alone after that. Alone against two desire demons who tried to break my mind. They continually haunted and tormented me, refused me sleep, denied my rest, no food or water, the air growing more stale by the moment. I knew I was going to die there; it was only a matter of when. But I would not let them break me. Whatever they offered, however they tortured me, I refused to give in. My faith sustained me!

“But I didn’t remain unchanged. Eventually, I was rescued. I begged my rescuers to kill every last mage in Kinloch! I wanted vengeance, for myself, for Annlise and the others, for all the templars who died in that tower. But cooler minds prevailed, and my heated words were overruled. Now I understand, I was too close to the problem, I’d been hurt too badly, of course my opinion was skewed. But back then, I felt every mage was a potential blood mage waiting for the right opportunity.

“Afterwards, my Knight-Commander didn’t know what to do with me. I couldn’t speak of what happened in the tower, how could I? I saw my fellow templars—my friends!—slaughtered, changed into monsters, utterly destroyed. I didn’t want that stain on their memories. And as for myself, I wasn’t the same after that—how could I be?! I was… damaged… but still willing to serve. So he sent me to Kirkwall.”

Cullen put so much bitterness and hate into that last word, that Peredura felt a shiver of fear run down her spine. He didn’t speak, he didn’t move, his hand braced against a wall near the bed, his shoulders slumped in fatigue. She waited, but he’d grown so silent she thought he might be lost within his memory. She cleared her throat softly and offered, “Varric told me what happened there, about the Champion of Kirkwall and Knight-Commander Meredith…”

“Then you know,” he interrupted her. “You know what she did, how she caused the circle there to fall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? She used me! She used my distrust and suspicion and hatred…” his words broke, but only for a moment, the force pushing them out too strong to resist, “To further her own purpose. She didn’t promote me to her Captain because I was competent; she promoted me because she could use me to instill distrust between the templars and mages, to further goad the mages into rebelling!

“By the time I realized what she had done, how she had used me—used us all!—it was too late. The mages were forced to resort to blood magic. It was either that, or die. And in the end, most of them still died, along with the innocent.”

He leaned his backside against the wall, too tired to pace. “All I ever wanted was to be a templar, to serve the Order. All I’ve ever done, is fail. My first Knight-Commander abandoned me to a slow and painful death. My second used me to purposefully incite a rebellion that nearly destroyed a city. Still I tried to serve, to assume the role of Knight-Commander, to lead the templars in Kirkwall as best as I could. I thought it was what was expected of me. Yet, after all I’d seen, after all I’d done, willingly or no…” He looked up at her, his eyes old and tired, the eyes of a man who’s seen too much for ten lifetimes, much less his own. “I want nothing more to do with that life! Can you understand? Everything I wanted, everything I desired, is now tainted and repulsive to me. So when Cassandra approached me about joining the Inquisition, it wasn’t too hard to walk away from all I’ve ever known.

“I’ve tried, Peredura,” he watched her approach him, but he didn’t move away or warn her off. “I’ve tried to give as much to the Inquisition as I did the Chantry, to serve as faithfully… to serve better than before! To give all of myself, to stop taking lyrium, but…” he choked on something that sounded of unending pain, “I can’t break free! These thoughts still haunt me, worse than before! I… I don’t know… if I can endure this… if I can succeed… I’ve failed so many times already… there’s so much more at stake this time… if I fail again…”

She put her hand on his shoulder, felt him tremble beneath her touch, and knew the torment he was going through. “You don't have to do this alone, Cullen.” Her hand moved, slowly, in a light caress, from his shoulder up the side of his neck to cup his cheek. “I’m here for you. And the others,” she added in a rush, before he could get the wrong idea. “We will help you through this.”

He closed his eyes again, savoring her touch, taking a few moments to simply breathe. When he looked at her again, his eyes were clearer, still bloodshot and circled with fatigue, but strong and sure and steady once more. “Yes, I think I’m beginning to get the idea.”

She smiled, thinking he was making a small joke or witty comment. When he gave an answering smile, she knew she had been right. “There’s still quite a few hours before dawn; you should try to get some more sleep.”

He nodded, looking like he knew he wouldn’t succeed, but knowing he needed to try. She started to move away, her hand falling from his face, but he caught it before she could get too far. She looked back at him, wondering what he could want, hopeful and fearful at the same time.

His question was not unexpected, something she had been waiting for, something she vainly prayed he would not ask. “What is in the bottle?”

She knew he was referring to the bottle on her desk, the blue bottle that sat innocent and threatening beside his armor. She lifted her chin and held his gaze, her words steady as she answered, “It’s a powerful sleeping draught. One sip, and you’ll be out for at least an hour. Take the whole bottle, and you could lose a day or more. Would you like me to get it for you? It might help.”

He scoffed, letting go of her to run a hand through his hair, messing the curls up even further. “That would help, if it were true,” he muttered, thinking her words were a trick, “But even so, I think I should learn to make due without such things.”

She nodded, not quite satisfied with him, but happier with his answer.

“Could…” he started and stopped talking, and she waited quietly to see whether or not he was going to speak. He looked up at her, then towards the opened balcony door, then back to her. “I know you’re used to warmer weather, but could you leave the door open for the rest of the night. It… helps… to be able to see the outdoors.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Peredura, you’ve done so much for me, I…” He felt ashamed, unable to find the words to express his gratitude.

“Cullen,” she tilted her head until she was within his line of sight, “Try to get some sleep. All right?” She waited until he nodded in answer, before she left him, leaning against the wall, staring at the night.

* * *

Peredura was tired.

Scratch that. She was beyond tired. She’d had very little sleep for the past four nights while caring for Cullen, leaving her with dark circles around her eyes, and making her nearly as clumsy and awkward as she had been when she’d first awoken with the mark. But that wasn’t the extent of her troubles. She was tired mentally, and distracted, her thoughts focused on Cullen more than on the conversation of those around her. She was also in a state of feeling continually chilled. She chalked that up to Cullen, too, after having kept the balcony doors—at the minimum—cracked if not fully opened, all for his benefit. The night wind in Skyhold was freezing, and Cullen, curse him, not only liked the breeze, but the coolness. He wanted nothing more than a light blanket, while she huddled and shivered beneath her comforter, fully dressed and wearing her jacket. To top it all off, her nose had started running, just for spite she was sure. She sniffed and rubbed the offending part of her body as she climbed the stairs of her tower.

The good news was: because of her bedraggled state, everyone believed she had been sick the past few days and was only now recovering enough to leave her chambers. A small comfort, as she felt catching a cold was a poor reward for all the sacrifices she’d made these past fews days. It wasn’t fair, she thought to herself, that as Cullen got better, she got worse. She sighed, paused to moan at the distance she had yet to climb, and lethargically set the next foot on the next step.

Fear panted beside her, keeping pace, but chaffing at her slowness. He’d gone with her today only because he needed the exercise, otherwise she would have preferred to leave him with Cullen. But she had had to go to that meeting with Leliana and Josephine; she’d put it off for too long already. And Cullen appeared to be getting better, had even insisted that Fear needed the outing more than he needed the company. And it was only for a couple of hours. What kind of trouble could Cullen get into in that short amount of time?

She’d reached the last door to her chambers and paused again. Damn, she was tired. She really wasn’t looking forward to another night of caring for someone else. But Cullen needed her, her strength, her experience, her empathy, and her discretion. She could let herself be sick and resentful later; right then she had to set aside her pettiness and focus on helping Cullen. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and tried to put an expression on her face that was something other than bone-deep exhaustion.

“Cullen?” she called softly as she opened the door, wanting to give him warning if he was doing something, er, personal, while not wanting to wake him if he had managed to find some rest. Fear, however, had a mind of his own. He lifted his head to sniff, gave a happy-sounding bark, and bounded up the steps to disappear around the top of the railing. Peredura sighed, knowing it was too late to scold the hound, and dragged herself up after him. It was probably a good sign, she told herself, if Fear didn't seem concerned. The sight that met her eyes when she reached the top step, however, caught her off guard and froze her with shock.

“Kaffas…”

“Good evening, Inquisitor.” The words were formal, strong, clear, and coming from Cullen.

“Commander,” she acknowledged, forcing herself to start moving again and finish entering the room. It took even more effort to cross the front of the hearth and approach her desk, all the while staring at Cullen. He was standing before the desk, dressed in the clean change of clothing she had set aside for him, along with his boots and leather coat. His hands were braced on the desktop, and he was staring at the small blue bottle lying next to his armor while ignoring the exuberant Fear trying to gain his attention.

The drawers of her desk had been opened, a few pulled completely out and turned upside down, the chair pushed out of the way. The chain was off his wrist, one end dropped and discarded on the floor in an untidy pile. She followed the length back towards her bed to see it lying off kilter; apparently Cullen had broken off the leg to free the chain so he could make it to the desk and find the key and…

“I understand,” he said, his gaze never leaving the bottle, “Finally, what it is you wanted from me, what it is you’ve been trying to show me. Lyrium.” He picked up the bottle, held it in his fingers, his hand steady and sure. “Even though I’m no longer a templar, even though I no longer take lyrium, I still have to live with it. Every day for the rest of my life, I’m going to want this. And every day I’m going to have to say no. No matter how hard things get, no matter what dangers I may face, no matter how strong and vivid the dreams become, I can never have another drop of this.” He looked past the bottle to see her, see the shocked expression on her face. He thought he knew the answer, and tried to reassure her, “Don’t worry; I didn’t take any.”

“I know.”

The quickness and acceptance in her simple statement confused him slightly. “Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, “I thought it was past time I returned to my duties. Er, sorry about your bed. I’ll see to it that you get a new one.”

She nodded, still staring at him.

He handed the bottle over, and she mindlessly accepted it.

“I’ll be on my way, then. No doubt there’s been a lot of work piling up for me back in my office. By the way, what excuse did you give everyone, regarding my absence. I didn’t realize things were going to take this long, or I would have come up with something plausible myself…”

“You left Skyhold on a mission.” It was so much easier, answering his questions, rather than trying to take the initiative herself. “You were going to try to make contact with a templar friend of yours, see if they knew anything about the red lyrium-infected templars.”

“Ah,” he sounded somewhat disappointed, but then his voice brightened, “That’s… quite a good idea, actually. I think I will do that.”

“You thought of it,” she responded, “I mean, that’s what I told everyone, that it was your idea, and I agreed you should do it, so that’s where they think you’ve been, contacting this, um, contact, of yours.”

He looked like he wanted to smile. “Yes, it would be best to get our stories straight, wouldn’t it. Do you have a helmet I could borrow, something that would cover my face?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I’m going to have to leave Skyhold to find this contact of mine, but I was supposed to have left days ago. It would look strange if someone saw me leaving this evening. And I probably shouldn’t wear my own armor—a bit distinctive, that. So if you have some extra bits laying around somewhere I could rummage through for something that might work…”

“Oh, right, of course, um, maybe in the closet over there.”

“Ah, thank you,” he started for the door beside the bed, trying not to feel guilty about the broken piece of furniture. “There’s one more thing, Inquisitor,” he called, rummaging through the odds and ends.

“What?”

“I want Abbets and Devensport to be with you, at all times.” He came back out, a sturdy and nondescript helmet in his hands, a stern and no-nonsense look on his features. “I know you think you’re safe, now that we’re in Skyhold, and that we must have lost your assassin somewhere along the way. But I wouldn’t count on it. Fear is a good deterrent; he’ll make this assassin think twice before approaching you directly. But remember, we are dealing with a mage. You’ll need the power templars possess to protect you. Abbets and Devensport, well, you seem to like them well enough, and they are competent soldiers. They’re also moderate enough in their views to remain suspicious of mages without running around accusing every mage of being your assassin.”

“I don’t need…”

“You will have them with you,” he countermanded, reaching out to set his hand on her shoulder, but somehow it ended up cupping the side of her jaw, “For my peace of mind, at least. Promise me?”

She didn’t want to. She really did feel that since the assassin had been quiet for so long, that he must have died at Haven, or gotten lost in the snow, or even given up. But Cullen was so sincere in his request, his hazel eyes so open to her, she found herself nodding against his hand.

He saw her acquiescence, felt it through their touch. Maker, but she had the softest brown eyes, so wide and open to him. And they were so close, his face only a few inches from hers. If he leaned forwards just a little… If his hand tilted her head… But she had done so much for him, he couldn’t treat her so cheaply. He let go, stifling the reluctance he felt, ignoring the disappointed way she frowned.

“I should get going. There is someone I could try to make contact with, but they are a ways off.”

She nodded, her lower lip finding solace between her teeth.

“Remember, take Abbets and Devensport with you, wherever you go in Skyhold. And always take companions with you if you leave Skyhold. Agreed?”

She nodded again, following him with her eyes while he approached the stairs. He turned back one last time to look at her, saw her lost and lonely expression, and felt the need to reassure her. “Truly, Peredura, I did not take any of the lyrium.”

“I know,” she nodded, “Because it’s not lyrium.”

He was quiet for a count of three before he could find his voice. “What!?”

“I never lied to you, Cullen,” she clarified. “It is a sleeping draught. I had Stitches make it up for me, and put it in a blue bottle. I wanted to be sure, well,” her cheeks began to warm a little, the embarrassment helping to pull her from her shocked state, “That if you did fail, at least you wouldn’t get too far.”

He swallowed, shook his head, and said, “I should be angry with you, but I can’t, can I? You told me the truth; I was the one who assumed you were lying.” He let go with a huffed sort of laugh, “I suppose I should thank you, again, Inquisitor.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered. He turned to go, and she found her legs moving after him. “Cullen, er, Commander.”

“Yes?” he paused halfway down.

“Won’t you need more armor than just a helmet?”

He stared at the battered and simple helmet before stuffing it onto his head. “Nothing else there looked like it would fit. Don’t worry, Inquisitor, I’ll make do. It may take some time to track down my friend, but if I’m unable to make contact within three weeks, I’ll return to Skyhold.” His hand was on the latch to her door, turning it, pulling the door open…

“You know,” he sighed before leaving, “There’s one thing I envy you.” He looked up at her, his forehead and cheeks covered by steel and cloth, his hazel eyes shining from the shadows. “There’s no source of opeigh anywhere near us, nor is there ever likely to be, so you won’t be tempted very often. But I’ll probably have to be around lyrium every day for the rest of my life, at least for the foreseeable future. Yes, I envy you.”

Then he was gone.

Adverse to her earlier feelings, Peredura felt cold and alone now that she didn’t have Cullen to care for any longer. Not that she begrudged him his freedom, not that she didn’t think he had gotten over his addiction, but, well…

She chewed her lip, glancing around her empty-appearing chambers.

Fear nudged her hand, and she looked down at him and asked, “Who’s going to teach me to read, now?”


	14. Testing One's Feelings

Cullen was in a quandary.

Not that he hadn’t been in difficult situations before. He was a soldier first. Had been a templar for over a decade. Lived through a Blight. Seen two Circles fall. Battled darkspawn and demons and dragons.

But this was nothing he could thrust a sword through. This was nothing he could fight. He could neither draw a plan of attack, nor plot how to use his opponent’s weaknesses against him.

This was something intangible, though no less powerful because it lacked muscle or mass. This was something he had never faced before. This was…

“Maker’s breath,” he huffed, frustrated. With himself. With her. With the situation.

He had always assumed, because of the withdrawal, that his feelings towards Peredura were imagined, part of his obsession, a symptom of his illness. He was free of that now or at least—he assumed—freer. Yet his thoughts would linger on visions of her whenever he was alone or during a moment of peace. His dreams would turn from nightmares of Kinloch to memories of her cooling touch as she cared for him. And there was a… an ache… an emptiness in his chest… without her nearby.

He had ignored it, as best he could, for the past three weeks. There was danger enough to distract him, and he’d certainly had to keep his wits about him while tracking down his templar contact. Yet today he was returning to Skyhold, and it seemed time and distance had done nothing to ease these feelings.

That they were feelings, he didn’t doubt, not any longer. He merely doubted their honesty. After all, he had never before had the desire to woo a girl. Never before her. Never before those gentle brown eyes had captivated him. Never before that timid smile had awoken something inside him. Never before her empathy and loyalty had inspired him.

Now… how could things have changed so drastically? How could he trust the change, coming on the heels of his withdrawal? How could he be sure of her feelings, before he announced his and risked making a fool of himself?

He knew he’d have to speak with her eventually, test his feelings to discover if they were imagined or honest, unrequited or reciprocated. If she didn’t feel anything towards him, other than friendship, it would be embarrassing, but he could recover from it. If she did have feelings for him…

Oh, Maker, he thought to himself, could he even let himself consider it? She was the Inquisitor, he the Commander—there simply couldn’t be something between them, even if there was something between them. He would be better off, the whole Inquisition would be better off, if he never brought it up with her and continued to deny his feelings.

But what if they weren’t a part of his withdrawal? What if they were real? What if she felt them, too? Wouldn’t her happiness count for something, as well as his own?

He came around a bend in the trail and paused to take in the view. Skyhold was now visible, rising high above the scenery, the afternoon sun illuminating the rooftops and battlements. In an hour, he’d be within the soldiers’ encampment in the valley. Another hour after that and he’d be back in the Keep itself. And he was still no closer to a solution, to a plan of attack, to an inkling of an idea of what he should do.

He could only hope that she was currently away on a mission somewhere, just to give himself more time to come up with something. Though deep inside he knew, if he hadn’t come up with a solution by now, he never would.

The last part of his journey went pretty much as he anticipated. He was challenged, asked to prove his identity, and was allowed to pass by a very perplexed-looking scout. He didn’t understand at first why the scout looked at him so strangely. He supposed it was the mismatched armor, pieces picked up here and there, some even scrounged from corpses. Not something he would normally do, steal from the dead, but he couldn’t have done this mission in his own armor, and he hadn’t wanted to take the time to find something suitable from Skyhold’s stores—he was supposed to have left days before. He decided to leave the helmet off to at least let his face show, thinking that would ease him past the next sentry.

It did, though not without the same strange look. He might have chalked it up to womanly silliness—those strange little looks and giggles behind his back that were suddenly silenced whenever he turned around—but the second soldier had been male. He supposed it could be because he hadn’t shaved the whole time he’d been away, giving him a more unkempt look than his normal half-preoccupied state. After the fourth sentry, however, he began to wonder if there was bad news of some sort awaiting him at the Keep, or if he had missed something major and was walking into a mess. Whatever the cause, it certainly didn’t improve his temper, and he stalked through the main gate of Skyhold with his hazel eyes glaring and daring anyone else to look at him askance.

He hadn’t made it three steps beyond the portcullis before he came face-to-face with the Inquisitor. Well, if there had been some major catastrophe while he’d been away, at least she was still alive. He greeted her with a very curt, very impersonal, “Inquisitor,” while he tried desperately to hold on to his aloof demeanor.

“Commander… oh!” Her eyes had shone brightly when she saw him, a smile gracing her face and seemingly erasing the scars. The next moment, her gaze had traveled upwards and her smile faded into something a bit more perplexed. “Welcome back to Skyhold. I, er, trust your mission was successful.”

“After a fashion.” He had trouble looking at her, feeling the need too strongly to stare and re-memorize every minutia of her features. Instead he made his eyes scan the courtyard, observing the placement of her guards, acknowledging Fear’s greeting, noting the progress of the repairs, anything but looking into her eyes and allowing himself to feel whatever it was that he was feeling. He needed some air and some space, before things got out of hand. Right, it was time to employ Standard Tactic Number One: Retreat. “If you don’t mind, Inquisitor, I’d like to take a few moments to freshen up before giving my report.”

The smile returned, a little humorously, and effortlessly blocking his escape, his legs refusing to work when she looked at him like that. “No doubt. You, er, have the worst case of helmet hair I’ve ever seen.”

So that was why everyone was looking at him so strangely. He felt a bit of relief, glad that there wasn’t anything serious he had to contend with right away. Still, he wondered why no one else had mentioned it; it wasn’t like he would be offended if someone had said something. At least Peredura certainly seemed at ease enough to tell him about it. In fact, she was too at ease, reaching up on tiptoe, her hand lifting to one side of his head where she ran her fingers through his hair. Repeatedly. She made a small grimace, “It doesn’t seem to want to lie flat…”

Nope, this wasn’t going well. Just standing before her was making his knees weak and his palms sweaty. How could he ever find the strength to ask… find the words to explain… find the courage to discover…

He really needed to get away. Now. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t dislodge her hand, couldn’t hinder her efforts…

“Begging your pardon, yer Worship,” Devensport cleared his throat and approached, “But Master Dennet doesn’t like for you to be late for your lessons.”

She made that grimace again, only more sour this time. “I suppose you’re right. Excuse me, Commander, but I have a riding lesson I wouldn’t want to miss. Not again, anyway. You’d better take care of that cowlick yourself.”

“Yes, Ser,” he swallowed, feeling regret when he saw her turning away. He knew he should be grateful for the reprieve, but his heart was warring with his reason.

“Unless…” she peeked at him around the corner of her overgrown bangs, over her shoulder, that timid smile doing something with her lips far better than chewing them, “You’d like to come with me?”

He should have taken the opportunity to run. Instead, he found himself turning towards her. Before he could answer, however, she was dropping her gaze and sputtering, “I mean, I’m sorry, you just got back from a long mission, you’re tired, you probably don’t want to go out again, not right away, I should leave you to change your clothes, at least, not make you go riding…”

“I’d love to,” he found himself answering, quickly silencing her ineffective babbling string of excuses, and just as quickly feeling the need to make his own sputtering excuses, “That is, I can ride, quite well actually, and have trained templar recruits to ride, but I, er, do have other matters that need attending to, so, um, perhaps another time…?”

Oh, Maker, had he just asked her out on a date? A riding date? Or had she asked him first?

Judging by the blush staining her cheeks, she had done the asking. “Until later then, Commander. Have a meeting called for when I get back from my lesson, and after you’ve had a chance to wash off the dust and dirt of the road. Now, I really have to get going. Master Dennet gets grumpy when I’m late. And I don’t want to disappoint him; he is putting so much effort into finding me the right mount. Excuse me.”

He watched her speed away, Devensport and Abbets in tow, feeling cheated somehow. He was supposed to be the one retreating, not her. The next moment, he all but slapped himself upside the head, remembering that this was what he wanted. Even if it was opposite of his original intentions, the end result was the same: escape. Bemused over his adverse reaction, he shook his head and resumed course for his tower.

It didn’t occur to him until later to wonder over her awkwardness.

* * *

“So that’s where the red templars are coming from, Therinfal Redoubt,” Peredura mused, staring at the map. “Should we send our forces there now? It seems premature.”

“It would be,” Cullen agreed. “Our troops are not yet ready for an all out fight; we’re still recovering from the disaster at Haven. Nor are our forces large enough to take on an army of corrupted templars. Attacking Therinfal now would be suicide.”

“We should first send in scouts,” Leliana suggested, “Find a back way in, or a weakness in their defenses we can exploit.”

“Or make one ourselves,” Cullen added.

Peredura knew that tone in his voice, that hint of smug anticipation, “You have an idea already, don’t you, Commander.”

It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but one that he confirmed. “I do. As you know, templars take lyrium; it’s a necessity they cannot go without. These red templars are no different, other than the color. If we can figure out where their lyrium is coming from, we can destroy the mines, collapse their supply lines, and severely cripple their strength, all in one go.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Cassandra asked. “It’s not like red lyrium mines are well established, their locations clearly marked with signposts.” She didn’t mean for it to sound cross and confrontational, and Peredura saw Cullen straighten his posture as if preparing to defend himself. However, he took a deep breath before replying.

“They’re using regular trade routes through the Emerald Graves to supply the redoubt, smuggling the red lyrium among the caravans.” Peredura admired the way he kept his tone civil. After weeks of hard travel and dangerous reconnaissance following on the heels of his battle with withdrawal, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he bit Cassandra’s head off in retaliation. Yet he remained polite—if a little cold—and focused on the task at hand. “If we can find which caravans are carrying red lyrium, we can investigate them, perhaps find something that will tell us where the lyrium is being mined, or backtrack their course. At the very least, we’ll be keeping that much lyrium out of their hands.”

“Sounds like a good start,” Peredura put her weight behind it before anyone else could object. “You said these caravans ran through the Emerald Graves?”

“You’re not thinking of going out yourself to find them?” piped in Josephine.

“She’s trying to get out of riding lessons,” smirked Leliana, before adding with half a giggle, “All her lessons.”

Peredura lifted her chin, daring any of them to mention the light pink color, blotchy due to her scars, that spread from hairline to the collar of her jacket. “That wasn’t the reason—the only reason. I was thinking it would be good for me, as the Herald of Andraste, to get out of Skyhold for a bit. Travel the countryside. Recruit more agents to our cause. As the Herald, I am supposed to be the physical embodiment of the Inquisition. The people need to see me, out there, doing things that matter, inspiring them to join us.”

“But you are also now the Inquisitor,” countered Cassandra. “It is no longer your place to go around recruiting people. It is your job now to lead us.”

Peredura stood her ground. “The word, ‘lead,’ implies that at some point I’ll be doing some sort of leading. As someone once told me, a good leader leads from the front, by example. I can’t do that, hiding here in Skyhold. I have to go out there where people will see me. Besides,” she crossed her arms and looked back down at the map, “I need the vacation.”

“I can hardly see how tracking down random caravans smuggling red lyrium for corrupt templars would be considered a vacation.”

Josephine choked off a giggle. “We forget, Commander, you have been away for almost a month. You haven’t seen her try to ride, have you?”

“Or dance,” added Leliana.

“Dance?” he asked, growing more confused. “Why would she need to learn how to dance?”

“Because of that alternate future,” Peredura sighed, taking back control of the conversation, or at least trying to, “The one where Corypheus defeated the Inquisition. When I was in that future, I learned that part of his victory was due to the assassination of the Empress of Orlais. I never found out the details, so Leliana and Josephine have been trying to discover how he might be planning to do it.”

“We don’t know who the assassin is,” Josephine supplied, “But we are fairly certain the attempt will be made during the Grand Masquerade Empress Celene is holding.”

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen swore. “Orlesian politics literally are murder. No wonder you think facing red templars would be a vacation.”

“Turn your nose up at The Grand Game if you like, Commander,” Leliana’s voice positively oozed with venom, “But the stakes are just as grave as any battlefield, and a lack of court approval can be just as devastating as any trebuchet. All of Thedas could be at risk…”

“Regardless of whether or not we want to go,” Peredura stepped in—again—before a fight could start, “It is obvious this Masquerade will be where the Empress is assassinated, so we have to be there to stop it. Josephine has been working on getting the Inquisition invited to the ball. And once there, we will have to play this Game, act in whatever way will gain us more favor. If that means I have to learn how to move around a slippery, polished floor in high-heeled boots without tripping and breaking my neck…”

“You are doing very well, Peredura,” Josephine used her given name to try to encourage her. “A few more weeks, and you should have the steps down well enough to dance with the Empress herself.”

“Kaffas… would I have to do that? Dance with the Empress?”

“As Inquisitor, you may very well be expected to dance with the Empress, if she so chooses,” Leliana clarified, “Though such an occurrence is rare. Also, I think the Empress would outrank you, so she would be the one leading, if that’s any comfort.”

“Some,” Peredura nodded. “But, still, I mean, would that be acceptable, two women? Won’t that give offense?”

“Not in Orlais,” Josephine assured her. “Think of it as part of The Game. And Leliana and I will be there to guide you through the trickier aspects. Besides, if all else fails, you can always retreat back to Cullen’s side; I’m sure he will protect you.”

“Wait a moment,” Cullen held up his hand. “I have to go, too?”

“Of course,” Josephine smiled sweetly insincerely, “All of the Inquisition’s top officers and advisors must be in attendance. And you wouldn’t expect the Inquisitor to attend without the General of her Army.”

For a moment, Cullen looked like he had choked on a lemon. “Fine,” he gave in ungracefully, “But I certainly won’t be dancing. And,” he looked directly into Peredura’s eyes, “If you’d like an extra hand tracking down those caravans…”

Even Cassandra laughed at that statement. “Don’t look now,” Leliana was the first to find her voice, “But I think our stoic Commander just made a joke.”

“I. Never. Joke.” His glower was strong, though at least he resisted the impulse to pierce any particular person with it. “I’d much rather face an army of red templars than a ballroom full of Orlesian nobility.”

“Truly?” Peredura couldn’t help herself.

“You’ll understand,” he answered cryptically. “Is there anything else I’ve missed?”

“I’ve had a record kept of all our decisions and any major events occurring in Orlais and Ferelden. I’ll have a copy sent to your office by tomorrow morning,” offered Josephine. He nodded his assent, but remained silent.

“Is there any other business?” Peredura asked hopefully, looking around at the others to see each of them shaking their heads, “Good. Then we’ll adjourn until tomorrow morning. Josephine, could I speak with you a moment?”

“Of course,” she readily agreed. If she was surprised by the abruptness of Peredura’s request, or the way she was already taking her arm and pulling her from the war room, Josephine showed no sign.

Cullen did. He stared at her retreating back and couldn’t help but wonder why she seemed so eager to leave. He didn’t think it was because of him; she had been happy enough this afternoon to see him. In fact, she had leaned in close to him and run her fingers through his hair. She had even asked him to go horseback riding with her at some as-yet-to-be-determined date. On the other hand, she had seemed flustered immediately following the offer. Perhaps there was something about him that upset her on some level.

Just before the door closed, she glanced over her shoulder with one wide brown eye, to find him staring at her.

The toe of her boot caught on a chipped flagstone, causing her to stumble.

His hand reached out as if to catch her, even though there was a whole room between them.

Josephine returned Peredura’s grip to steady her, and he could hear her remark just before the door closed, “Careful, Peredura. I’ll not have you twisting your ankle simply to get out of dance lessons…”

Cullen found himself staring at the dull brown of the door, rather than the silky brown of Peredura’s hair. He quickly realized his hand was hanging out in space, and decided to finish lifting it to rub the back of his neck, as if he had been intending to do that, instead of catching Peredura. He cleared his throat and made his own excuse to leave, “It’s late. I, ah, should get back to my office, catch up on as much work as I can tonight.”

He didn’t look to see if Cassandra or Leliana were fooled by his actions; he only walked as briskly as possible without allowing it to seem like he was racing away. The next moment he was safely through the door, the portal closing with a satisfying thunk behind him. He paused a moment to take a deep breath, all of the anxiety and tension from the past several weeks creating a tight knot between his shoulder blades. He knew he should go back to his office and make himself relax before leaping headfirst into work. If he could relax. Heaving another deep breath, he started down the hallway, the staccato beat of his boots making a familiar and comforting rhythm, lending a calmness to his soul.

It was short lived. He opened the door at the far end of the hallway and entered Josephine’s office.

“…but of course there would be repercussions. Are you sure?”

Peredura was standing with her back to the door, facing Josephine in front of the fire. She didn’t see Cullen, but she did see Josephine’s eyes flicker over her shoulder towards the opening door. If she was concerned over who might have entered the room, she didn’t show it, instead focusing on her conversation. “I think so.” She paused to laugh, a little bit sheepishly, “I suppose that doesn’t sound very confident, does it? Yes, I am sure. I know how such a thing might look—his being from Tevinter—but he’s had experience with balls and social events and the like. At the very least,” she leaned her head in closer, “Dorian knows how to dance. If I have to twirl around the ballroom, he can keep me from making a complete ass of myself.”

Josephine gave a long-suffering sigh and shook her head, but she knew she was giving in. “Oh, very well, I will add his name to the list of those we wish to take with us. I suppose you’ll want to take Bull, as well?”

Peredura shrugged, “The Inquisition is diverse, not discriminating against race or creed…”

“But we cannot take everyone,” Josephine countered.

“At the very least, leave Sera behind,” quipped Cullen. “Imagine the chaos she could create.”

He hadn’t meant for the comment to be so dry, nor to carry quite so well across the room, but it was and it did. Peredura spun to see who had entered behind her, her eyes widening and her mouth hanging slightly slack when she saw it was Cullen. Before she could respond, however, Josephine was already shuddering and answering, “Oh, I’d rather not imagine, if you don’t mind. Please, Peredura, I know the two of you are close friends, but…”

“…Sera would be out of place there, among so many nobles,” she agreed, quickly regaining control of her reactions. “No, we won’t take Sera. But I am serious about Dorian and The Iron Bull, at least.”

Josephine nodded, resignedly, “I shall see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Josephine. Er,” she turned towards him, but if she had intended to say anything, she must have changed her mind at the last moment, merely giving him a brief nod, “Commander.” She all but ran for the door, her head hidden within her soft long tresses and her limbs moving stiff and hasty. If Cullen didn’t know any better, he would think she was the one making a retreat. The idea confused him. He stood for a moment and pondered, trying to find the reason why Peredura was acting so strangely around him. She had been very warm and open towards him upon his arrival; her behavior hadn’t changed until…

Of course! She had asked him to go riding with her. He had thought at the time that it had sounded very much as if she was asking him out on a date, and had also thought his own response could have been misconstrued the same way. And just now, she had been asking Josephine to arrange for Dorian to come with to Halamshiral. Dorian, who wouldn’t make her look like a fool. Dorian, who could dance. Dorian, with whom she had so much in common. Dorian, who could make her laugh.

It was clear to him now. She and Dorian must have started seeing each other during the past three weeks. At the very least, she had feelings for Dorian. And she was feeling embarrassment over her offer to go riding, thinking he—Cullen—might be reading more into it than was there. That would explain her flustered state, her sputtering, her running away to avoid any sort of personal interaction with himself that might again be misinterpreted as something—anything—more than mere friendship.

“Was there something you wanted, Commander?” Josephine’s question broke through his thoughts like a charging golem.

“What? Oh! Er…” he groped for any sort of excuse as to why he was standing there, in her office, staring into the fire. “No, nothing, I was…”

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, ah,” he almost moaned. Truthfully, he was feeling cheated, realizing he’d missed the chance to test his own feelings towards Peredura. “I mean, yes, but it’s just a slight headache, nothing more.”

“When was the last time you had any lyrium?”

If Josephine’s question had been forceful, Leliana’s question fell like a guillotine blade. Both Cullen and Josephine turned to stare at her standing in the doorway, her bobbed red hair poking out from beneath her hood. Cassandra was just behind her, and Cullen’s eyes bored into her next.

“I didn’t tell anyone; I swear it.” Cassandra seemed just as surprised and caught off guard by the question as everyone else.

“She didn’t have to,” Leliana supplied.

“If I may ask,” Cullen squared his shoulders and faced the three women, feet shoulder width apart, his left hand lying deceptively lazily on the hilt of his sword, “How?”

“I am the Inquisition’s spymaster, Cullen,” Leliana sniffed, “But this was one secret I didn’t have to ferret out. Though I knew you and Cassandra were keeping something from the rest of us, I trusted that the two of you would come forward with whatever it was when the time was right. It was the templar in charge of rationing our supplies of lyrium. She had been noticing for some time, months in fact, that you have been taking less than your fair share of lyrium. She came to me with her concerns, fearing that something was wrong and wanting to inform someone of your actions. I assured her that everything was as it should be, but to tell me immediately if there were any changes, either increases or decreases. She came to me again, right after you’d left on your mission, to say you hadn’t taken any lyrium with you.”

He nodded, amazed that he had been found out so simply.

“So… how long has it been?” Josephine asked.

He let a deep breath out through his nose. “The last time I had lyrium was the day before Peredura returned from Haven.”

Their reactions were varied. Cassandra gave him a little smile, her eyes glowing with pride over his accomplishment. Leliana inclined her head, accepting affirmation of her suspicions with practiced ease. Josephine let out a surprised gasp, quickly stifled behind one hand, but had to press, “Cullen, how is this possible? Didn’t you say just a few moments ago, lyrium is a necessity templars cannot go without?”

“I… am no longer a templar,” he admitted, his voice heavy with regret and loss. The next moment he had set his personal feelings aside and focused on the logic behind his decision. “We couldn't afford to allow the Chantry to gain any leverage over us. Because I was once in the Order, I had an obligation to the Inquisition, to quit using lyrium, to sever any connection to the Chantry, so I could devote myself fully to our cause. I have done so.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“I informed Cassandra as soon as I started, trusting her to keep on eye on me and do what was needed, should anything go wrong. And, as soon as Peredura became Inquisitor, I felt she had the right—the necessity—to know about my endeavor.”

“And, you have succeeded?” Josephine’s curiosity seemed insatiable that evening. “There are no ill effects?”

“Nothing that isn’t manageable,” he admitted only slightly reluctantly, but held her gaze steadily. He knew he was going to be under intense scrutiny, as word spread and others tried to determine if he was actually free of lyrium or faking it. In a sense he welcomed the attention; it would encourage him to remain honest and sober. “Now, if there are no other concerns, I should get back to my office. There is a lot of work I need to catch up on.”

“Of course,” Josephine gave him a short bow of respect. Cassandra stood quietly and watched him, like a proud mother. Leliana inclined her head once more, a hint of a smile playing around her lips. The next moment, Josephine was giving him a brief hug. “And… oh, well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he accepted Josephine’s praise, however empty it felt. His success was due mostly to Peredura’s hard work, work for which she could never receive the credit. It wasn’t fair.

Neither was his missed opportunity with her.

He spun on his heel and marched from the room, his stride strong and purposeful, his back straight and chin up. He was thankful that the women waited until the was through the door before they started their gossip. That they would talk about him he was sure; what he had done was unprecedented, and a lot of people were going to have a lot of questions. And, hopefully, some of those people and questions would lead to others following in his footsteps. What he’d done hadn’t been easy, but he did prove it possible. That counted. For quite a lot.

But he’d rather not deal with all the speculations tonight, his mind overflowing with enough of his own speculations.

He had lied about going back to his office, instead feeling the need to get out of the Keep and back into the fresh air. Outwardly he paced the battlements and relished the feeling of a breeze ruffling his hair. Inwardly his mind mulled over his problem. Peredura. Specifically, Peredura and Dorian. He could feel the strange sensation in his chest, the sharp pinch like a knife wound whenever he recalled the sight of her and Dorian standing together, his theatrical displays, her uninhibited laughter.

At least he had discovered her feelings, before he announced his and made a fool of himself. But that didn’t mean his feelings went away, or were diminished by any discernible amount. Instead the ache appeared to have grown, filling his gullet with bile, making the leather of his glove creak as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

He needed to get his mind off of her; he needed to focus on work. Thankfully, due to his long absence, there were plenty of reports to go over, stacked at least a foot high on his desk back in his office. Yet his feet betrayed him, keeping him pacing the battlements, moving further and further away from his tower.

He stalked into an empty tower and out the other side, suddenly finding his view unimpeded, the last tower behind him. As he approached the southernmost tip of the battlements, he saw the patrol had thinned out noticeably. He wasn’t too concerned. This part of the battlements was built atop a sheer cliff face, a treacherous frozen lake at the base far below. It would be unlikely that any enemies would scale it, at least not at this point in time. He hadn’t even concerned himself with repairing the damaged, partially collapsed section up ahead, other than of course clearing away loose rubble and shoring it up so no one in the courtyard below could be hurt by falling debris.

It was full night, the moon bright though still rising behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the landscape. Thanks to this he might have missed her, he might have turned around and gone back the way he had come, if she hadn’t made a loud noise upon noticing him.

Peredura had been walking the battlements and trying to clear her head, no easy task this night. Her thoughts should be full of reports and plans, dance steps and history lessons. She tried, she honestly tried to distract herself, to focus on important matters, but again and again her thoughts would return to those enigmatic hazel eyes, those honey-colored eyebrows, those suppressed and tightly controlled curly locks.

Maker, she had run her fingers through them!

Peredura made a grimace over the embarrassing memory, and her appalling lack of self-control. She had been able to keep her head while he’d been away, but with Cullen back in Skyhold, all she could think about was this awkward something between them. She knew she should say something, find some way to break through this block, yet she couldn’t tell him how she felt, not when she was so unsure about his feelings towards her.

She had tried. She had tried to be patient, to follow Dorian’s advice, but it didn’t seem like she was getting anywhere—like they were ever going to get anywhere. Even after all she’d done during his withdrawal to show him her feelings. She had cared for him, protected him, listened to him, held his hand… But as soon as he was well, as soon as he could stand on his own two feet, as soon as he no longer needed her, he had left her. Alone.

Which was where she had been tonight. Alone. On the battlements. Lost within her thoughts. Bitter and dark thoughts, painful and aching, wondering if she had somehow blown her chance at happiness. That other Cullen from the abominable future had loved her, but perhaps that was only because of the dire situation. Perhaps it had been the loss of the Herald, the fall of the Inquisition, the corruption of the red lyrium that had made Cullen’s feelings turn to love. And by changing that future, by keeping him and the Inquisition safe, she had removed the circumstances that caused his love to blossom. It would be ironic—wouldn’t it?—if by saving him, she had made it so he would never love her. She knew she shouldn’t feel cheated, that it was better for Cullen to be alive and cold towards her, than dying and in love with her.

But she was selfish, damn it!

Then Sera had popped up, Sera who always seemed to know exactly what Peredura needed and when she needed it. Sera began distracting her with raunchy stories made more delightful by her colorful accent. The stories were so vulgar, that her guards had to excuse themselves a little further out of earshot, to either keep from hearing them, or keep the Inquisitor from hearing their snorting. Peredura didn’t mind the privacy, eagerly forgetting her troubles over Cullen and silently thanking Sera in her heart for being there, for always showing up at just the right time with just what she needed. That is, until Cullen appeared on the landing above them and Sera had abruptly left her to approach him. Peredura’s hands reached out to grab her, to stop her, to keep her from attracting Cullen’s attention, but her fingers closed on empty air.

“Oi! Lion-face! What ‘cher up to?”

Up on the landing, Cullen could barely suppress the urge to glare as he turned to face Sera. She was almost as bad with nicknames as Varric. “‘Lion-face?’”

“What?” she blinked her large, anything-but-innocent eyes up at him, “You didn’t seem to like ‘Mabari lap dog.’ Besides, Perry’s already gotten herself a real one. Nah, you’re more a lion, with all that fur over your shoulders and up top, looking like a mane,” she waggled her fingers at his scalp, before changing to shake one finger and putting her other hand on her hip. “And don’t think I didn’t see the helmet what matches your armor, squirreled away in your trunk.”

“You… you’ve been in my things?”

She snorted, crossing her arms over her chest, “Not that there’s much to go through. Someone would think you’re a stingy miser, never buying nothing of value. And don’t change the subject. We were talking about you.”

“Were we? I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpanned.

“Right. Loads of things you haven’t noticed,” she agreed, “Like why I’d be out here, well after suppertime, freezing my knickers off—if I were wearing any knickers.”

Cullen put a hand over his eyes, beginning to feel a real headache forming, “Maker’s breath, I did not need to know that.”

Sera stomped her foot and made a sound overflowing with frustration. “Will you listen to what I’m saying?!”

“I am listening,” he said slowly and succinctly, “But you are not making any sense.”

“Honestly,” she threw her arms wide, “I know I’m speaking plain, can’t speak nothing but plain. So why is it, only Hairy-Perry’s the one what understands me?”

He blinked at her.

“Right. I’ll try again. Look over my shoulder, toy soldier, and tell me what you see.”

He probably wasn’t in the mood to endure one of her little, nonsensical games, but at least she was a distraction from more weighty matters. He decided to play along and answer, his eyes never leaving her face. “The battlements.”

She rolled her eyes. “Look harder than that.”

“The Keep? The mountains? Stonework…”

“No,” she made another sound, a long grunt deep in her throat. “Here, let me; a soldier’s only good for swinging pointy things, but an archer’s good for aiming.” She walked around to his back, grabbing his arms and twisting his upper body. Cullen was taken by surprise, unprepared for her manipulation, otherwise she would never have been able to budge him. She did manage it, however, and pointed his face towards the ruined section of the wall.

“See her now?”

“See who?” his eyes searched the shadows. “There are two guards on the stairs, but…”

She gave him a shove, again only able to do so because: first, he was preoccupied with trying to figure out what she wanted him to see, and second, because he did see. His feet stumbled loudly on the stones, stomping and scuffing for several paces until he could check his forward momentum and regain his balance. But it was too late, his presence noted by both the guards, and the woman they guarded.

Cullen’s swallow was audible. There she was, past the bottom of the shallow set of stairs in the wall, her small form almost swallowed by one of the merlons, her face hidden within shadow. He eased his steps into a more measured rhythm as he sauntered down the stairs, knowing he was committed. He couldn’t very well turn tail and run now, not after he’d been seen, not after it seemed as if he was approaching her—thanks to Sera’s shove. He nodded to the guards in passing, noting they were the same pair from earlier in the day, the same pair she almost always chose to accompany her.

“Begging your pardon, Commander,” Devensport spoke before he’d gotten a step beyond them. Cullen halted his progress to look at him expectantly. “But Abbets and I’ll just be up here a ways, up on the landing. Get a better view of the area that way.”

“Ah, yes,” he sighed, thinking he didn’t want that much privacy while facing Peredura, but unable to think of a reason to counter their intentions, “Very well, carry on.”

“Ser!” they saluted in unison before marching up the stairs towards the landing, from which Sera had already conveniently disappeared.

He turned back to face Peredura, feeling like he was facing down a pride demon while wearing nothing but his knickers. He finished walking up to her, not too close, but close enough that he could keep his voice quiet while they talked, sensitive to how sound carried in the still night air. Her features emerged from the shadows as he neared, honest and open, and perhaps with the faintest tint of pink. At least she seemed as nervous as he felt, an encouraging sign—he hoped. He cleared his throat and without thinking said, “Inquisitor.”

Damn, that hadn’t been what he wanted to be the first thing to come out of his mouth, something formal and dry and off-putting. He could clearly see it had been a mistake, by the way she dropped her face, her hair falling forwards over her shoulder as she answered, “Good evening, Commander.” She turned her head far enough to take note of the collapsed part of the wall behind her, obviously looking for an exit and deciding that wasn’t the way to go. And since he stood between her and her guards, she was essentially trapped.

He needed to put her at ease, to reassure her this wasn’t a matter of importance or, er, well, that it was important, but it wasn’t business. It was personal. He should be personal. Though not too personal. Realizing he was taking too long to answer, he blurted, “It’s a nice evening… for a stroll.”

“What?” her face grew blank, as if she didn’t understand the words he had spoken. The next moment, her cheeks flushed fully, that lower lip of hers quivering as if it wanted to hide between her teeth, and she sputtered, “Oh, um, yes, strolling, that’s what I was doing, up here, alone, standing on the battlements, strolling…”

Which was true, she had been strolling, strolling and trying hard not to think about Cullen. And failing miserably at it. And now here he stood, they were alone, and she had her opportunity to talk with him, and instead her words tumbled from her lips in a mess of sound and syllables that seemed incomprehensible even to her own ears. Oh, Maker, she thought to herself, why could she never say what she wanted to say?

Cullen didn’t want the silence to grow between them and tried to think of something else to say. “We could, er, stroll, if you wanted, together, that is, unless you’d rather stroll alone, but we could together, or not together, but just side by side, two people strolling in the same direction…” Oh, Maker, he rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck, why could he never say what he wanted to say? “That had sounded much better in my head. Why do things never come out the way I intended them to?”

She gave a laugh, a nervous little blurb, quickly stifled behind her hand, though her eyes remained twinkling with mirth. “If you ever learn the trick, would you tell me? I seem to do it a lot, too.”

He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but he had made her laugh, and a spot of warmth began to grow inside his heart—Dorian wasn’t the only one. He half-smiled in return, the scarred corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “Deal.”

A small silence grew, something neither cold nor warm, as they stood there and looked at each other. Both of them knew what they should be doing, but neither of them knew how to do it. Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, while Peredura chewed her lip.

Suddenly she blurted, “I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Ser Barris. Wasn’t there anything you could have done for him?”

He took a deep breath, his vision filling with the memory of his templar contact Barris, an electrical red haze about his eyes, spikes of red crystals growing from his shoulders, the pain and agony he spoke of—now Cullen understood what Peredura saw him go through in that other future. “No, the red lyrium was already taking effect. And without a cure, the only option I had was to end his suffering.”

She touched his sleeve briefly, with only her fingertips, and he found himself wishing she would linger. “I understand.”

Silence again.

This time he managed to blurt something. “Did you get the bed I ordered for you?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she answered, thinking of the large, four-poster bed with the rich red upholstery and the darker red wood, “It came last week.”

“Do you like it? I thought it would be good for you, with the heavy drapes you can lower, help keep out some of the chill at night.”

“Yes, it, um, works nicely. I haven’t felt chilled since.”

“Oh, um, good, then…”

Yet another silence fell between them, and—though still not exactly uncomfortable—it did make both of them shift their feet and fidget while they stood there, facing each other. This time there was a burst of sound as both of them tried to speak. Just as suddenly it broke into laughter, nervous but becoming a little more relaxed. Cullen took another step towards her and said, “Ladies first.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I went first last time. It’s your turn to go first.”

He was taken aback for a moment, not sure if he should ask about Dorian as he had intended. They were standing there, smiling at each other, so pleasantly now that the discomfort was fading, he didn’t want to bring it back by asking about another man. With his courage flagging, he groped for the first topic that came to mind, “I was only wondering where Fear was tonight.”

“Oh, ah,” she glanced off to the side, “Krem’s borrowing him. Leliana’s scouts have reported seeing a strange creature—some sort of large wolf or bear, walking upright but hunched over—in the next valley. Solas said it’s a yeti, a creature that’s, um,” she paused to chew her lip while she thought of the correct word, “Indigenous? Yes, indigenous to this part of the Frostback Mountains. His advice is to stay well away from it; apparently it has a strong, musky odor about it. Krem thought it would be a good way to start training Fear to hunt, following this scent since it’s so strong.”

“That is a very good idea,” he agreed, “But you know you should…”

“I should be the one training him,” she nodded. “Yes, I know. But I don’t know how to hunt. Krem does. He’s going to get started teaching Fear, and later when I have the time and Fear understands the signals, I’ll join them and be able to learn without being a distraction for Fear.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Cullen agreed, thinking he might have hurt her feelings. She had finished his sentence with such alacrity, he conceded he might be nagging her too often regarding the training of her hound. He decided to change the subject. “Well, now it’s your turn. What was it you wanted to say?”

“Oh! Right.” Again her lip sought solace between her teeth, a tiny furrow forming between her brows. “I wanted to ask how you’re coping. Without the lyrium.”

He had to look away, to fill his eyes with something other than her face full of care and concern, the expression bringing to mind far too readily memories of those days spent in her chambers. “There are… good moments, and bad moments. I can usually predict, if I push myself too hard, that I’ll have a rough time of it. These past few weeks of danger and hard travel, I’ve learned just how much I can take before that happens. But now that I’m back, knowing that lyrium is readily available, seeing others use it, getting up in the mornings and reaching for my kit on the table next to the bed…” He interjected half a laugh, “I’ll manage. At least the pressure to keep it secret is over, now that the others have found out what I’ve done.”

“Oh, no, Cullen,” she put her hand on his forearm, the heat of her body unable to penetrate his armor, yet he was sure he could sense her touch, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t me, I didn’t tell anyone, and I don’t know how they could have found out…”

“It was the templar I put in charge of rationing the lyrium,” he assured her, taking hold of her hand with his gloved one, again certain that he could feel her skin through the leather. “She noticed I was taking less and less, and that I didn’t take any at all with me when I left on my mission. She reported her suspicions to Leliana.”

Her lips made the O shape, but this time she didn’t give it voice. “Again, I’m sorry. I should have thought of that…”

“No, it’s all right, I don’t mind the questions or the scrutiny. I’m rather thankful that I have you and the others to hold me accountable. I’ll need that in the coming months,” he assured her. “In fact, it’s better if the news starts to get out, that I’ve broken lyrium’s hold over me. Other templars will hear of it, they’ll know it can be done, and—perhaps—some of them might try it, too.” He stared at her face, his eyes flickering between hers, trying to convey more meaning into his speech than he could find the words for, “That was one of the reasons I did this, not so much for myself, or for the Inquisition, but for others.”

There was understanding in her eyes, and an encouraging smile on her lips. She gave his fingers a squeeze, reminding him that he was holding her hand. His first impulse was to let go, very suddenly and very abruptly, but he squelched that impulse, thinking that such a move would seem cold and uncaring. Instead he allowed his hand to grow heavy, his fingers slipping slowly away from hers.

It was the right move, seeing as how the smile remained, tender and accepting and sincere, as if she was looking at someone she, well, cared for deeply, at the very least. He found himself wondering if she really was in a relationship with Dorian, or if he was misinterpreting her genuine niceness for something more—either towards Dorian, or towards himself. Feeling emboldened by the warm moment they were sharing, he decided to come right out and ask about Dorian, but his manner was anything but oblique. “So, um, you and Dorian…?”

Yes, he’d messed up again. He could tell, even in the faint light, that her expression had turned flat and cold. “What about me and Dorian?” she asked, her tone tight and crisp.

“I, well, I just thought,” he began, fairly incoherently, “The two of you, I mean, you seem to get along so well, together, the two of you, and…” His words trailed away in amazement as a string of Tevene burst from her lips. He continued to be a little in awe of her as she turned to pace away before putting on a show, threatening the battlements with her fist, throwing in a gesture or two whose meanings he was sure were not socially acceptable, and finally ending up kicking a small block of rubble before falling silent. He cautiously cleared his throat, a little wary of drawing attention back on himself, and asked, “What was that?”

Peredura squeezed her eyes shut, taking several breaths through her nose as she fought to get her temper under control. “I can’t believe this,” she shook her head, turning back to face him, “You’re barely back, not even a day, and already you’ve heard the rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“It’s not fair! I’ve tried to stop them, to find out who’s telling them, but no one wants to admit where they heard it first, and they can’t seem to let it go. If I knew who had started this, who was spreading them…”

“What rumors?”

“I mean, yes, Dorian and I get along,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “But he doesn’t know me, not really, not like you do. He doesn’t know about my opeigh addiction, or that I’m a former slave from Tevinter. He doesn’t even know I’m elven. How can I be in a relationship with him, if he doesn’t know that?”

He waited this time for her to pause before asking, “What rumors?”

“You…?” she started and stopped so quickly, she might not have said a word, but merely formed a partial syllable. She blinked at him, took a breath, blinked again, and licked her lips. “You haven’t heard the rumors that Dorian and I are in a relationship?”

“No,” he honestly answered. “I haven’t heard any rumors. Since my return, I’ve been in the war room with you and the others, remember? Aside from the time I took to get washed up, that is.”

“Oh,” she blinked again. “Then… why did you ask about us?”

“I, er,” now it was his turn to feel discomfited, “I mean, you did ask Josephine to make sure he came with us to Halamshiral.”

“That’s only because he can dance, and I wanted to make sure I had a partner, if I needed one.”

“And, well,” now he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “The two of you do get along, you’re always laughing at his jokes, and you’re both from Tevinter, so you have things in common, and I thought he found you attractive, at least he acts like he does.”

She stared at him, her thoughts a mystery, for so long that he began to sweat in the chilly night air. Then one corner of her mouth twitched, not by much, but enough to throw confusion into the conversation. “You think Dorian,” she raised one eyebrow, “Finds me,” she put a hand over her heart, “Attractive?”

“Of course he would. Any man would. You are beautiful, Peredura, despite the scars. Your hair is silky and healthy, your eyes are a captivating shade of brown. And you have such a gentle soul… Are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” she couldn’t suppress the smile any longer, and tried to hide it behind her hand even as she answered him. “I’m not laughing at you, but no, Dorian wouldn’t find me attractive. Trust me.”

“What do you mean?”

Peredura took a deep breath, fighting off the last of the giggles. She couldn’t admit to how she knew, but she could throw out a few suspicions and let him fill in the blanks himself. “Dorian isn’t ‘any man,’ as you put it. He, er, well, let’s just say, there are some men out there who don’t find any woman attractive…” She left the sentence hanging.

It took Cullen a full three seconds before his eyes widened with surprise. “You’re not serious!” he scoffed. “You mean he’s…” He stopped himself and shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it. How do you know? He’s told you this.”

“No,” she answered honestly, “But he’s never made any advances towards me. Sure, he’ll flirt and tell stories to amuse me, little things to lighten my mood when I’m feeling down, but he’s never tried to kiss me. He’s never even tried to hold my hand.”

“But I thought I saw…” quickly he stopped himself, not wanting her to know he’d been spying on them. Well, it wasn’t exactly spying, but he had come across them standing together—close together—on more than one occasion. He supposed, in thinking carefully over what he saw, that from his angle he couldn’t be sure one way or the other that they had kissed, had shared a touch or embrace.

Then again, there had been plenty of times he and Peredura had stood close together without sharing anything intimate. They were doing so right now. He cleared his throat and tried, “That’s no proof, you know, just conjecture.”

She merely shrugged in response, leaving him to wonder. It would be more believable if he did the convincing himself.

“So, um, then there’s nothing between the two of you…”

“No,” she looked at him curiously, feeling her heart begin to flutter, wondering and hoping and praying she knew why he was asking for clarification, “I’ve said that already. There’s no one… Well,” she gave her lower lip a nip, deciding to throw caution to the wind and give him a hint, “There is someone I sort of, ah, like, a lot, but I have no idea how to tell him.”

She was looking at him from just behind the edges of her overgrown bangs, that innocently flirtatious look that made his palms sweat inside his gloves. He licked his lips, deciding to match her hint with one of his own, “Um, I know the feeling. There’s someone… I… like, a lot, too. I’ve been afraid… well, I don’t have a lot of experience with relationships.”

“Neither do I,” she admitted softly.

“Not that I’ve never been with someone, I have, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever before.”

“And I’m scared,” she took up where he left off, moving slowly until she faced him fully, “Nervous, maybe, that he won’t feel the same way I feel, and how foolish I would look, telling him how I feel, only to find out he doesn’t share those feelings.”

“Exactly,” he sighed, partly amazed that she understood, partly resigned that of course she would understand. “I don’t even know if these feelings are real, or a product of my withdrawal from lyrium, I…” For the first time in his life, he wanted to bite his lip, thinking he might have let too much slip out.

She saw his eyes widen, the moonlight barely strong enough to let the blush on his cheeks show. She smiled, trying to reassure him, to ignore his little mistake, “Taking that first step, it’s daunting. It’s making me hesitate. But I’m also afraid, if I hesitate too long, I’ll miss my chance.”

“I don’t want to miss this chance, but what do I have to offer y— er, any woman?”

She gently settled a hand on his chest, somewhere over his left collarbone, close to his shoulder, her fingers burrowing into the long coarse fur of his mantle. “Cullen, you should give yourself more credit; you have a lot of qualities that a woman would find attractive. You are a brave and skilled fighter, a fierce defender and loyal friend. And boyishly handsome, when your hair hasn’t been stuck inside a sweaty helmet for three weeks,” she mildly teased him, receiving a smirk from him for an answer. “Any woman would be lucky—blessed—to have you in her life.”

He looked at her for a moment, his sharp hazel eyes penetrating into her yielding brown, not in an invasive manner, but searching—almost desperately— before he could find the voice to ask, “Truly? Any woman? Even… you?”

He was amazed she couldn’t hear his heart battering at his ribcage, attempting to escape his chest. She was amazed he couldn’t hear hers doing the same.

“Any woman,” she leaned in even closer as his hands came up to cup her shoulders, “Even me.”

Oh, Maker, this is really happening, they both thought. He bent his neck, lowering his face as she uplifted hers. Her eyes closed, something she didn’t even realize was doing.

Not until a voice called out along the battlements. “Hey, Fear, heel! Excuse us, your Worship. Fear’s been good for me all evening, paid attention to every command I gave him, but I guess he’s too excited to see you again.”

Peredura’s eyes flashed open, surprised to find Cullen’s face so close she could breathe his breath—and angry over the interruption. She leaned around his shoulder as he rotated out of the way before she barked, “WHAT?!?!”

If Krem was hurt or shocked by her manner, he didn’t let it show as he sauntered up to them. Nor did he show any reaction over finding Peredura and Cullen so romantically positioned. He smiled widely, his cheeks flushed with the chilly air and his boots sodden from tramping through snowbanks. “We just got back from our first night of tracking. Thought you’d like to hear how it went.”

“Right,” she squelched down the disappointment over the missed opportunity, the frustration over the intrusion, and tried to speak civilly. “How was it? Did you find the yeti?”

“Nah,” Krem gave Fear’s ears a goodnatured tussle, “Wherever or whatever that creature is, we didn’t come across any sign of it. But we did find a nice little warren of rabbits. Had a bit of fun, giving them chase, letting Fear work off some excess energy. But don’t worry—I didn’t let him get blooded, not this time.”

Fear gave him a dissatisfied whine at that.

“Oh,” the disappointed sound in her voice had nothing to do with the semi-unsuccessful hunt. She had no idea what Krem meant by Fear getting blooded, but figured rightly she probably didn’t want to know, at least not tonight. She only wanted him gone and for her and Cullen to pick up where they had left off, hoping that it wasn’t too late, that their opportunity hadn’t passed them by. “Well, better luck next time. Thank you, Krem.”

“I could take him out again tomorrow night, if you’d like.”

“That would be fine,” she ground out between her teeth. She could feel Cullen pulling away, imagined him putting a formal and proper amount of space between them. She wanted to pound out her disappointment on the battlements with her bare fists.

Krem’s grin widened, and for a moment she feared he hadn’t been fooled, that he knew exactly what was happening—or had almost happened—with her and Cullen, and he was stalling deliberately to torment or torture them both. She wanted to hit him, to shove him away, before Cullen could escape. The next moment, he miraculously wiped the shit-eating grin from his face and gave them a formal bow. “Well, then, I’ll take my leave. Goodnight, Inquisitor. Goodnight, Commander.”

“Goodnight,” she answered, relief washing over her as Krem spun on his heel and disappeared into the night, leaving them alone once more. Now, if only she could keep Cullen from running away, if only she could recapture that moment, if only she could…

Before she could speak, before she could think of anything to say that would keep him from backing away, Cullen took hold of her shoulders and twirled her around. She gasped, shocked, but he didn’t stop; he was too determined to do this before there was another interruption, another missed moment. His hands remained on her shoulders, holding her a willing captive, as he fell upon her like a hawk on a hare.

His lips were firm against hers, strong and sure and surprisingly warm like the man they belonged to, with just the right amount of pressure, neither lightly insecure nor obsessively harsh. She savored the sensations, the warmth of his body, the movement of his lips, the musky scent of masculinity. Timidly, impulsively, her jaw opened slightly, allowing just enough room for her tongue to slip out and taste his lips.

His reaction was unexpected. A deep moan echoed within his chest, his fingers tightening their grip on her shoulders, and he pulled her closer into him. Her breasts were smashed against the unyielding metal of his armor, making her gasp, opening her mouth a little bit more. He took advantage, his tongue sliding out as hers had done, though he dared to venture further.

Now it was her turn to moan. She had had so many new experiences over the past several months, so many shocks, she should have developed an immunity—or at least a resistance—to being startled. But nothing could have prepared her for this, for the feel of his tongue inside her mouth, stroking her own tongue, counting her teeth, delving deep and lapping her up like a favorite dessert. Her mind was overwhelmed, unable to process all she was going through much less come up with some sort of action to take. Luckily, her body instinctively knew what to do. She bent backwards a little, thrusting her hips towards his, molding her body against him as his hands moved to her back, supporting her, encouraging her.

Oh, Maker, this was heaven.

Cullen pulled back with a soft hum, the sound swallowed by the night and the blood pounding in her ears. Peredura found herself out of breath, her vision dark even after she opened her eyes. But she could see his face, see his gaze drop slightly abashed and to the side. “I, er… sorry, I… that…”

She feared. She feared he was pulling away again. She feared that worse than she feared anything, even having to face Corypheus. One of her long-fingered hands reached up and touched his cheek, keeping him from turning away, causing him to lift his eyes back up to hers with hope. “That… was… I don’t know the word… something more than ‘nice’ or ‘good’ or even ‘perfect’… something I’ve wanted for so long…”

“So have I.” He sounded amazed, relieved, even a little happy. His face started looming closer again, his lips already parted, and she matched his expression, tilting her face to move her nose out of the way.

But both of them stopped, a new sound reaching their ears. It wasn’t alarming or all that loud, but it was distracting. Cullen laughed, just a little, and settled his forehead against hers before turning slightly to look at Fear. “You should take care of your hound.”

Peredura also turned to look at Fear, sitting on his haunches, staring intently at them, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. It was his pants they were hearing, pants that were conveying an urgent message. For the first time, she found herself wishing Varric had never given her the puppy.

“It’s all right,” he assured her when she hesitated, “Go see to his needs. Besides, I think we’ve gotten over the hump.”

“But I want to kiss some more,” she whined.

Fear answered with a whine of his own.

Cullen half-smiled, the scarred part of his lip rising up in a smirk. “So do I. But another time.” He began to pull away from her, letting Fear know she would be with him soon.

“When we go riding,” she pressured, wanting to pin him down to specifics before he could get away, “Tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” he shook his head as he walked with her and the hound towards the stairs, “Too much work. But the day after tomorrow, I’ll set aside a few hours to ride with you.”

“Promise?” She wasn’t letting this go, or his hand.

They neared her guards, who were eyeing the two of them without trying to look like they were doing so. He ignored their scrutiny and focused on the woman at his side—the woman who had wanted him to kiss her for a long time. “I promise. Now, go see to your hound’s needs.” He bowed over her hand, brushing his lips across the back of it, “Goodnight, Peredura.”

“Goodnight, Cullen,” she sighed, a little sadly, a little resignedly. “Come along, Fear, sounds like you’ve missed your supper. Let’s get you fed.”

Cullen watched them walk away, his eyes scanning every shadow and scouting every corner, as she and her Mabari and her guards made their way from the battlements to the kitchens beneath the Keep. Only when she was safely indoors did he start his own steps.

Peredura had wanted him to kiss her, had wanted it for a long time. Briefly he regretted the time he wasted in worry and doubt; that time was past and couldn’t be reclaimed. But she had wanted him, Cullen. Not Dorian. Not Solas. Not any other man. His heart felt like crowing, overfilled with triumphant elation. He had done it—he had claimed her heart, and he hadn’t even known he’d been trying.

He was whistling a merry tune as he walked along the battlements back to his office.


	15. Flight

“My advice is, don’t let him know you’re apprehensive,” Dennet offered.

Peredura gave a guilty start, realizing her attention had wandered from Master Dennet. Instead she had been staring at the man approaching through the courtyard, his armor polished to a sheen and the fur of his mantle brushed until it rippled softly in the breeze. She was unable to keep her voice from squeaking as she asked, “How? I mean,” she coughed gently, realizing he wasn’t talking about Cullen. She dragged her eyes back to her would-be mount, overwhelmed yet again by the sheer size of him, “Do horses understand what we say?”

“Some words, sure,” Dennet allowed, stroking the broad white streak down the animal’s long nose and getting a snuffling whinny in answer, “But it’s body language they understand best. And scent. Horses are very sensitive to smells. And when you’re nervous, you sweat, something they can smell.”

“So don’t sweat. Got it.” Her tone was anything but confident.

Dennet laughed good-naturedly. “Just stay calm. This here’s a good mount. A little young, sure, but he’s responding well to training. You’ll do fine together, I’m sure of it.”

“Why can’t I use the pony I’ve been riding?” she asked. She knew she was whining, but she couldn’t help herself. This horse was large and gray, with glossy black legs that bulged with muscles. She could easily imagine how fast he would be able to run, and for how long, once they were no longer confined within the safe walls of Skyhold. Oh, Maker, perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all…

“That pony’s all well and good for teaching you to sit a saddle and walk around the courtyard, but today,” he led both horse and Inquisitor over to the mounting block, “You’re going riding with the Commander outside of Skyhold. Your soldiers will see you, and you’ve got to make a good impression, right?”

“Right,” she agreed, stepping up to the top of the block, sounding like she was more disagreeing than agreeing. She put one foot in the stirrup and started to lift herself up.

“Other leg, your Worship,” Dennet quietly corrected her.

“Oh,” she bit her lip, feeling her cheeks flush with heat. She lowered herself back to the block and switched her feet.

“Good afternoon, Commander,” Dennet greeted Cullen as he finished walking up to them. Peredura was doing her best to hide her blush behind her overgrown bangs, all the while trying to swing her leg over the back of her horse. He was a lot larger animal than she had gotten used to, and she overestimated the force needed to straddle him, nearly sending the rest of her body after her leg.

“Careful,” Cullen’s hand on her thigh steadied her, holding on until she could find her balance. “Take it slow. You don’t have to launch yourself into the saddle, no matter how much larger than you he may seem. Good afternoon, by the way, Inquisitor. Master Dennet.”

“Cull… er… Commander,” she acknowledged him, remembering at the last moment to keep it formal between them, at least while they were around witnesses. It amazed her that he could tell the source of her discomfort right from the start, but she didn’t comment on that, either. “I was just going to take a few laps around the pen, get used to my new mount, before our ride.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, stepping back and letting go of her thigh. Her skin felt distinctly cold right where his hand had been.

She didn’t have time to say anything more, as Dennet handed her the reins and slapped the horse’s flanks, sending him trotting off towards the edge of the pen. She immediately pulled on the reins, at the same time digging her heels into his sides, sending him opposing messages. He whinnied, shook his head, but slowed a little, hoping he was doing what she wanted him to do.

“That mount isn’t quite the best fit for her, wouldn’t you agree?” Cullen asked.

Dennet gave him a flat stare.

“I don’t mean to be rude or insult your knowledge of horses,” Cullen quickly tried to placate the man, “But an Orlesian Courser is a fairly spirited mount. And the Inquisitor is a fairly novice rider.”

“I know,” he huffed, turning his attention back to the pair in question, “But the Inquisitor needs a mount to suit her station. The Courser is a fine animal, intelligent, with a long lineage that every man conversant with horses would appreciate. Having our Inquisitor sit astride an animal like that sets the right impression, that the Inquisition is legitimate and honorable and worthy of respect.”

“Yes, I concede your point,” he winced as Peredura nearly bounced off the saddle, her mount having taken to trotting once more. “But, at least for the time being, perhaps it would be better to suit the Inquisitor’s mount to her abilities, rather than her station. A Dalish All-Bred would be my first choice.”

“That common animal?”

“It may be common, but it is sure-footed,” he let out a sigh of relief when Peredura finally got her mount under control, slowly walking him back towards them. “And far more tolerant of inexperienced riders.”

Dennet made a non-committal sound, grimacing beneath his white mustache, but allowed, “Perhaps. Tell you what, Commander, I’ll look into it and see if I can’t find one that at least appears regal enough to be the Inquisitor’s steed.”

“Good man,” Cullen clapped him on the shoulder, thinking he had smoothed over any feathers he may have ruffled. “Now, do you have my mount ready?”

“Yes, ser,” he gestured to the side where there were three horses, two of which were already saddled with riders, “And mounts for her honor guard. You three take good care of her, and my horses. If you dare bring them back here lathered and sweating, I’ll tan your hides with a switch…”

“We’re only going for a short ride,” Cullen protested mildly as he easily mounted his horse, “An hour. Two at most. And I doubt there’ll be any racing done,” he winced when he saw Peredura almost lose control of her horse yet again. “Not intentionally, at any rate.”

“See to it!” Dennet commanded. Cullen reassessed his earlier assumption, thinking Dennet may be sore; he did step on the man’s toes after all, telling him how to do his job. The next moment, all thought of the horsemaster’s hurt feelings fled his mind. Peredura came half-charging at him, her mount barely controlled, and he knew he was going to have a long afternoon. He resisted the urge to take the reins from her hands. She was going to have to learn for herself how to control her horse, and doing it for her wouldn’t work. Instead he held his own horse steady, willing her to do the same.

She barely pulled to a stop in time, her horse close enough to nudge his horse’s flanks, but she discouraged such behavior with another tug on the reins. “Cullen, I mean, Commander, I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

He saw the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the smile spreading across her face and melting away the scars. Maker, if she could only see herself as he saw her. “Do you, now? Think you’re up to a walk, something a little farther than riding in circles around the pen?”

Her smile didn’t fade. “I do.” Her horse gave a neigh in agreement.

“Well, then, let’s go riding.” He twisted in his saddle to look over his shoulder at their escort. “Devensport and Abbets again, isn’t it?”

“Ser!” the two former templars saluted.

“One of you range ahead, make sure there are no obstacles in our path. We’ll be heading southwest, over to the next valley, before turning around and coming back.”

“So short?” Peredura protested as they started for the main portcullis. She had hoped this riding date would last for a couple of hours at least. The way he made it sound, it would be a quick jaunt out and back.

“We’re going to take it slow,” he consoled her, patting her hand as she got her horse to fall into step beside his. At least her horse was calmer walking next to his mount. “You’re still an inexperienced rider.”

“That’s true.” Her face fell a little.

“And we will probably have to take the time to stop, every now and then.”

“Stop?” She sounded confused.

“Yes, stop and practice. Mounting. Dismounting. And giving your horse commands, like how to halt, or make him start walking again,” he leaned closer, “Without going into an immediate gallop.”

The breeze blew a strand of hair across her eyes, and she shook her head to dislodge it. It clung to her lashes, and she had to let go of the reins with one hand to pull it free. “Oh, I think I understand. Yes, I should take the time to practice.”

There was that smile again, and he found himself hard pressed not to reach across the necks of their mounts that very moment and steal a kiss. This was going to be a long afternoon indeed. Now, if only he could think of an excuse to get her escort to back away and give them a little privacy.

They rode pleasantly for a time, walking through the campsite of the ever-growing army, Peredura nodding acknowledgement every now and then whenever she was recognized. She felt surprise at first, over how many of the men and women knew her by sight, but then she realized she was riding an impressive mount, next to the very discernible Commander in his unique armor. Her own clothing looked rather like a uniform, the thick woolen jacket fastened with large silver buttons, and a light blue sash that seemed to stand out against the dark fabric. Not to mention the Inquisition insignia Cassandra insisted she wear. And the two guards ranging in front and behind her.

But what struck her as the most amazing, was that no one seemed unduly concerned over her scarred face. Deep down inside she knew, if the people saw the full extent of her scarring, if they learned the truth of her past, if they even caught a glimpse of her ears… Well, it was nice to pretend for one afternoon, to lift her face and smile and not have to worry about other people judging her.

“You seem happy,” Cullen commented when they finally cleared the camp. He turned his horse onto a side trail, heading for the next valley, and her horse continued to keep pace with his.

“I… I guess I am, a little,” she admitted. She again had to pause and pull her bangs free, this time from the corner of her mouth. Her horse took it in his head at that very moment to test her grip on the reins, tossing his head and pulling the straps from her fingers. She gave a small cry and slapped the horse’s neck in her effort to grab hold of the reins. The horse snorted and darted forward before she could regain control and pull the animal to a stop.

Cullen quickly caught up with her, his expression slightly reproachful. Yet he couldn’t find it in his heart to scold her, not when she looked like she realized what she had done wrong, and had managed to correct her mistake so quickly. Her soft brown eyes blinked at him, waiting for his reprimand. Instead he reached out his hand to brush the wayward lock back behind her ear.

She gasped. Too late he remembered her ears, what her former master had done to her, how she could never reveal them, not now, not when everyone thought of her as human.

“Sorry, I… I forgot… I only wanted to help… I never meant…” he sputtered.

Peredura glanced over her shoulder, but Abbets—bringing up the rear—had been too far back to see anything. “It’s all right,” she answered quickly, one hand making sure her hair was securely tied back and covering her ear, the other firmly holding the reins.

“It’s too easy, to forget you’re…” He stopped himself, realizing he had been about to say something that he shouldn’t, not where others might hear.

“I understand,” she allowed, but was unable to meet his eyes. “Sometimes, I almost forget it, too.”

He wondered at her statement, at the depths of meaning behind those few simple words, and tried to imagine what it must be like for her, an elf, a former slave, to suddenly find herself Leader of the Inquisition and having to pass as human. Of course she would be apprehensive of others learning the truth, even others she trusted, like Abbets and Devensport. To be eternally on her guard, keeping people at bay, hiding her secrets, never allowing her true self to show… Her life was still a prison. And—he hated to admit it but it was true—he was one of the jailers, one of those who had insisted she step up as Inquisitor, one of those who forced the lie not only to continue but to spread.

The warm and happy smile from earlier seemed out of their reach.

“There’s a, ah,” he paused to clear his throat, “There’s a meadow, just ahead. It’ll be a good place to take a break, do that practicing we were talking of earlier. If you still want to, that is.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed, her tone remaining neutral.

“Abbets!” Cullen called out behind them. The soldier nudged his horse into a trot, nearing them quickly. “Abbets, we’re approaching a meadow. The Inquisitor and I will be walking our horses for a bit, then practicing some basic riding postures. I want you and Devensport to range out, scout the surrounding area, make sure there aren’t any bears or this, what was it called, yeti lingering about.”

“Ser!” Abbets saluted before nudging his horse once more into a trot, circling around them to race ahead and find Devensport. Peredura felt her horse want to give chase and run with him, but she had finally learned to keep a firm grip on the reins.

“You’re sending them to scout for the yeti?” she asked as they started walking again.

“Well, you did mention it was seen in this valley, did you not? And we wouldn’t want to be caught off guard by any unsavory local wildlife, would we?” He was staring straight ahead, his eyes intently scanning the trail for the first glimpse of the promised meadow.

“Cullen, did you…”

“Did I what?” he asked after she had grown quiet for a moment.

“Did you send them away? On purpose? Just so we could, um, well, have a little privacy?”

He dared a look at her face. Her cheeks were flushed again, her eyes wide and wondering, her lower lip being threatened by her teeth. “I may have arranged an excuse for them to be out of sight, should anything embarrassing happen during your training,” he allowed. “Or if I, er, felt the urge again, to run my fingers through your hair.”

The blush deepened, his and hers.

They reached the meadow, and he pulled his horse to a stop. “Let’s dismount, shall we, and walk for a bit? I’d like to see how you lead your horse.”

“Oh, um, sure, all right,” she agreed. She felt a little nervous, taking note of just how high off the ground she was, and there was no mounting block out here in the wilderness, and the dismount had always been difficult for her.

“Here, let me tie up my horse, and I’ll help you down.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, already off his horse and leading it over to the side where a slender tree had fallen halfway to the ground. He looped the reins around the trunk, light enough to be easily pulled free at a moment’s notice, but secure enough to encourage the horse to remain. Then he sauntered up to her, his hazel eyes twinkling, the scarred side of his lip lifting up suggestively. She wasn’t sure why, but she was suddenly on edge. “Cullen?”

“Keep hold of the reins in your right hand,” he said, his voice almost too calm, one hand reaching out to settle lightly on the saddle just in front of her. “Now, gently kick your right foot out of the stirrup, without kicking the horse. Good. Bring your leg up and over the horse, turning to face me, as if you were going to slide down off the side of the saddle.”

“Now what?” she asked, after doing everything he had told her to do.

“Now,” he put his hands firmly on her waist, “Slide off.” He gave a little tug, starting the slide himself, catching her off guard. She gave a little squeak, her legs scrambling for a moment until she realized that his hands were holding her, catching her, controlling the progress of her slide. And bringing her closer towards him. Their fronts pressed together as he slowly set her down on the ground.

With Cullen in front of her, and the horse close behind her, she felt very warm and cozy and safe. His hands had remained on her waist, even after the horse snuffled and shifted sideways, giving them a little breathing room. “There,” he stated, his usual crisp tone muted into a simmering hum, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She shook her head.

“No uncontrolled fall from a dizzying height?”

She smiled. “No. How did you know what I was feeling?”

His expression changed, minutely, to something lost and searching, almost as if he was only now discovering that answer himself. “You have a slight fear of heights, and have made a few comments already on the size of your mount. It wasn’t too hard to guess, when you started looking around for a mounting block that wasn’t there, that you were apprehensive about dismounting.”

She looked downwards briefly, before coyly lifting her eyes and batting them from behind the safety of her bangs. “Am I so easily read?”

“Only by me,” he breathed. “Your face has filled my dreams these past several weeks. I… I know every detail… every frown, every wrinkle, every twitch of muscle…” His hand reached up to pull at her chin, before she could capture her lip with her teeth, “Every habit and the emotions that cause them. Sometimes, it feels like I know you better than I know myself.”

“Fancy yourself a mind reader?” she challenged him. “What am I thinking now?”

He smirked. He gave her that daring, confident, know-it-all smirk that made her knees weak. It managed to remain on his lips, even as he spoke, “Kiss me.”

She did.

Peredura closed her eyes and let herself get lost within the kiss. There were so many sensations to feel, to experience, to remember, she didn’t want to miss a single one. There was the firmness of his gloved hand, strong fingers incased within, stroking back along her jawbone to bury itself in her hair, tilting her head and holding it in place. There was the stubble along his chin, scratching her own chin, not uncomfortably but enough to make her wonder if he would leave behind reddened and embarrassing marks. It also tickled, just a little, gently poking her right around the edges of her lips where she quickly discovered her skin was very, very sensitive. There was the awkward mashing of their noses, fighting for the same space, until he managed to tilt her head, allowing her the ability to breathe—at least, once she remembered she was supposed to breathe.

And there were his lips, warm and firm, moving against her, moving with confidence and purpose, with tutorage and patience. She tried to mimic the movements, to open and close with his rhythm. When his tongue slipped out, just far enough to stroke her lips, something happened deep inside her. Some little spark lit off, a quick tightening of muscles that just as quickly burst, leaving behind a warm and tingling sensation that pooled just above the crotch of her leggings. It was something new, and exciting, and full of the promise of something even greater to come. What that could be she had no idea, but she did know one thing: she wanted to find out.

He pulled away all too soon.

Cullen kept himself from laughing, but he was amused by the reaction he caused. Peredura followed him when he broke off their kiss, leaning forwards with her eyes still closed, lips parted, obviously wanting more. Only his hand, buried at the base of her ponytail, kept her from teetering too far forward and losing her balance. He watched carefully as she rocked back to a more upright position and gently opened her eyes.

He was amazed, partly by his ability to cause such a reaction within her, but mostly at the difference in his self. He knew he had changed drastically over the past couple of days, running the gauntlet from depressive disbelief to full confidence. Yet he had reason to be confident, the evidence plain before him.

Merciful Andraste, what had he ever done, to deserve being blessed so? This woman—this beautiful, brave, intelligent, empathetic woman—had feelings for him. He. Cullen Stanton Rutherford. A plebeian boy from Honnleath who had the lofty dream of rising above his station and becoming a templar. A templar who had failed not one circle, but two. No, he had done nothing to earn this, had no reason to expect such a reward.

Yet here she stood, before him, looking at him with soft brown eyes, and with no desire for another in her heart. Only him.

“What are you thinking?” When he didn’t answer her right away, she touched his cheek, unable to feel his skin through the leather of her gloves, but knowing he would feel the gesture, and wanting to give him that sensation, that touch, that knowledge that she cared for him. “You have such a strange look on your face, one I haven’t seen before…”

“It’s nothing,” he took her hand in his, pulling it down to hold between their hearts, and quickly grasping at a change of subject. “I was going to ask earlier, where Fear is today. Not out tracking with Krem again, is he?”

“Oh, no,” she shook her head. Their hands dropped, fingers entwined, as they started walking through the snow-dusted meadow. “He’s with Blackwall. I wanted to take him with us, Fear does like getting out of Skyhold, but I took one look at the size of this horse,” she gestured with the reins still secure in her right hand, “And had second thoughts. Fear is still young, and a hundred-pound puppy snapping exuberantly at a horse’s heels with a nervous rider on top…”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, “A recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.”

“Blackwall was right there, and saw my dilemma, and offered to watch Fear while we went on our ride. He and Fear get along fairly well; I think it’s because Blackwall kind of looks like a fellow hound, with all that fur on his face.” She giggled.

He laughed, too. Unexpectedly. But he couldn’t help it, the image of Blackwall on his hands and knees and playing a game of tug with a Mabari puppy came too readily to mind. He coughed, trying to cover his slip, but it was too late.

“You do have a sense of humor.”

“What? I… never, I… it was just…” He sputtered quickly to a halt, knowing by the look on her face that she wasn’t fooled. He decided to change tactics and threaten her. “If you ever tell anyone…”

She laughed again, nudging his shoulder with her own, not in the least intimidated. “Commander Cullen knows how to laugh. Who’d believe me? But,” she nipped at her lip, “For the record, you do have a pleasant laugh. I like hearing it.”

He stopped walking, facing her and agreeing, “And I like hearing yours. Now, back up on your horse. Let’s practice some basic commands.”

“So soon?” she whined, and her horse nickered in agreement.

“That is why we’re out here this afternoon,” he reminded her.

She gave a huffing sort of sigh, “Oh, very well. But I’ll want one more kiss before we return to Skyhold.”

“As you command, Inquisitor,” he bowed formally, and a little teasingly.

This time she punched his shoulder. Not too hard, he was wearing armor and she didn’t want to hurt her hand, but hard enough to let him know she was a little miffed over his teasing.

“Here,” he bent over slightly, hiding his smirk and lacing the fingers of both his hands to make a sort of stirrup, “Put your left foot in my hands, and I’ll lift you up. When you’re high enough, swing your right leg over his back. Wait until you’re settled on the saddle before you put your feet in the stirrups. Ready?”

She nodded. “Ready.”

He could hear she sounded anything but ready. She did put her foot in his hands, however, so he lifted her seemingly featherlight weight, being careful to move slowly so she didn’t panic and feel like she was being launched over the top of the horse. She might have pulled herself up a little using the saddle, and tried to swing her leg over a little too soon, but she made it onto the horse’s back without falling off. That, he took as a success.

“Very good,” he said encouragingly, and got a flickering smile in response to his praise. “Um, what did you do with the reins?”

“The… wait… I had them… Oh!”

She had just managed to grasp the leather straps, which she had let go to take hold of the saddle, when the horse gave a start and jumped forward. She pulled back, a little too hard in her haste and nervousness, and the horse reared in protest before taking off at a gallop.

“Take it slow!” Cullen commanded in his best parade ground voice. “Small corrections. Don’t overreact.”

“I’m… trying…” she answered, most of her attention on the large animal surging with muscle and force beneath her. “Oh, stop, please horse, please just… stop!”

“Try saying whoa,” he called after her, cupping his hand near his mouth to help his voice carry. They were already halfway across the meadow, the horse looking like he might have the bit in his teeth and a full head of steam. “Damn,” he swore softly, quickly realizing she was not going to be able to get control of her mount. He took his eyes off of them to race back to his own horse, knowing he’d need to hurry if he was going to catch them before they disappeared into the forest. There was a good chance her horse might take the trail, sticking to the path of least resistance, but he wasn’t going to bet her life on it. In one fluid motion he freed the reins and mounted his horse, turning it almost before he had fully seated himself, and started it off at a full gallop.

Peredura didn’t know Cullen was coming for her. Her entire existence was centered on her horse, the rest of the world lost in a blur around the corners of her vision. Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong, but she was far to inexperienced to discern what it was or what she could do about it. She did know the reins were useless, the horse ignoring her tugs along with her verbal pleas.

His gait was unrestrained, jerking this way and that, changing direction whenever the mood struck him. She was swaying dangerously on the saddle and soon gave up trying to stop him, more afraid now of falling off than of not being able to control him. She let go of the reins and grabbed fistfuls of mane, hanging on for dear life.

They left the meadow. She thought she could hear a voice calling out behind her, but it was hard to make out any words over the pounding of the horse’s hooves. She felt a small amount of hope, however, seeing as they were following a trail and not racing pell mell through the trees. It would be easier for Cullen and the others to follow them if they stayed on the trail. And Cullen had to be following her; it had to be his voice calling out to her. He would rescue her. He would gallop up to her side and take hold of the reins and pull her horse to a stop, or pull her off the unmanageable animal and into his arms and everything would be all right…

The bubble of hope was short lived, as a flash of something bright burst off to their left. The horse gave a shrilling cry and lurched to the right, away from the small explosion of color and sound. Peredura also gave a cry, a startled scream, as something dark and thick came racing towards her face. She threw her hands up just in time to protect herself, heard a painful snapping like the sound of a tree branch breaking, and felt the heady sensation of falling through the air.

Cullen was cursing in full voice, his shouts alerting the guards who came racing back towards the meadow. They caught up with him not too far into the forest, not knowing at first what was wrong but following his lead.

“The Inquisitor's horse got out of control!” he shouted at them without slowing. He didn’t dare waste another second, thinking of the lead her horse had on him. “We have to catch them up.”

“There, ser!” one of the men called out, he didn’t take the time to discern who, only the direction the man was pointing. “Off to the right. I thought I saw something gray, like the color of her horse.”

Cullen’s eyes strained to penetrate the thickening forest, and he too caught the sight of the horse’s gray coat far ahead. “Come at him from the left. You, come up on the right. I’ll come from behind. We’ll try to cut him off. MOVE!”

The men needed no further urging, doing as their Commander bid, galloping their horses at dangerous speeds over uneven and treacherous forest loam in a desperate effort to catch up with their Inquisitor’s fleeing horse. Cullen didn’t worry about the ground, didn’t want to waste the time; if his horse tripped and broke his leg then he worry about it, not before. His focus remained on the brief glimpses of gray he caught every now and then. It seemed to him, as impossible as it may be, that they just might be gaining ground on the mount. Slow progress to be sure, but in one glimpse he thought he saw a good part of the horse’s tail, and in the next he saw a bit of the horse’s neck.

They had to be gaining. They simply had to be, because he needed to catch her. To save her. To find her whole and unharmed.

He didn’t know how long they had been racing, when a sound reached his ears, something terrible and final, filling his heart with dread. It sent a sympathetic shiver through his own mount, whose steps faltered a moment before he could reassert his control. The sound came again, filled with pain and fear and suffering, and Cullen knew the worst had happened.

Peredura’s mount had fallen.

“Maker damn it,” he swore, his eyes unblinking as he slowed his horse, knowing he would come across Peredura and her horse quickly, and not wanting to cause the obviously hurt animal any more stress than it was already feeling. Peredura may be trapped beneath the horse’s flanks, and a horse in pain and fear, thrashing around with his rider beneath him, could very easily hurt—even kill the rider.

“Easy!” he held out a hand, calling out to the other two as they came back towards him, closing in on the distressed horse. “Easy. Slow down. We don’t want to come up too suddenly and scare it.”

Another ten feet, and he saw his nightmare was only beginning. The horse was down, its front leg twisted and broken after sinking into a rabbit hole. It was a compound fracture, something he immediately knew the horse could never recover from. His heart in his boots, he dismounted and handed his reins to Abbets before approaching the animal.

“Easy, there, fella,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. “Easy. It’ll all be over soon. Try to relax. That’s it. That’s a good horse. Easy, now. Let me come a little closer.”

Devensport gave a choked sob at the sight. Even Abbets was hard pressed to keep his face impassive as Cullen’s knife ended the horse’s suffering. Cullen himself stood up slowly after the deed was done, wiping the blade clean on the hem of his mantle, before turning back to them, his face set in stone.

“Ser,” Devensport voice shook a little, “Ser… her Worship… she’s not here…”

“I know,” he acknowledged, his voice dark and deep, giving one last look to the unfortunate horse. Then he was all business, striding back to his horse and taking the reins from Abbets’ hands. “She must have fallen off somewhere between here and the meadow, and we missed seeing her with our attention on the horse. Abbets, go back to Skyhold, gather a search party, as many men as you can. We’ll rendezvous back at the meadow. Devensport, you and I will start searching the forest in the meantime. With any luck, we’ll find her before meeting up with the searchers.” He swung himself up into his saddle, narrowing his eyes as Abbets simply sat there staring at him. “Move, soldier. Daylight is wasting.”

“Ser!” Abbets snapped a salute before turning his horse and galloping off at an angle, thinking to come across the trail and make better time back to Skyhold.

“Devensport, let’s try to retrace her mount’s tracks. Take your time. Look for any sign that she might have been swept off his back, or even tried to jump clear. Broken tree branches, crushed bushes, and the like.”

“Yes, ser,” Devensport nodded, swallowing thickly. “Ser, do you think… I mean… could that be what happened? She just… jumped clear… and we missed her in our haste to catch the horse?”

“It’s possible.” Please, Blessed Andraste, let that be what happened, he prayed.

* * *

Peredura felt pain, nothing specific, sort of a malaise that spread through her whole body. Something, some little voice from some little corner in the back of her mind, told her she should be scared, at the very least cautious. She ignored it for the time being, a small sound parting her lips as she opened her eyes to see her surroundings.

Darkness met her eyes. Not the darkness of night, but the darkness of shadow and grime and disuse. There was a musty scent as well, like the smell of old wood rotting away. It was unpleasant, making her want to turn her face away from the offending odor, but the movement made her temples throb. She groaned, louder than the first noise, unknowingly attracting the attention of the other occupant of the room.

“You’re waking up? Good. Good. I was hoping you hadn’t hit your head too hard.”

She made a third noise, no more articulate than the first two, but her brain was beginning to kick into gear. There was someone else with her, and he was speaking Tevene. She blinked her eyes, forcing them to bring the shadows into focus, and found herself staring at the rafters of an old cabin. When she tried to speak, she unthinkingly used Tevene, “Where…?”

“No where,” the voice answered her. “Not really. Just an old shack I happened across, while making my way to Skyhold. Oh, I wish I could have gotten closer, but those scouts are too sharp eyed. I’ve had to stay all the way out here, watching from afar, biding my time until your next outing. But then, happy day! You came riding right up to my doorstep.”

Peredura knew that voice. Somewhere, from some time long since past, she had heard those sneering and masculine tones before. Haughty. Self-indulgent. Possessive. Jealous. She could feel her heart start hammering inside her chest as she lifted her head to look around, blinking and forcing her eyes to focus.

There, sitting on a stool off to the side, was a mage—a Venatori, to be precise. His robes were a little worse for wear, and his boots showed signs of hard use, but his manner and posture were still arrogant and domineering. She rolled onto her side, or tried to, but her arms refused to work right. She dragged her eyes away from the mage to stare stupidly at her wrists, bound before her with a thin strip of leather. She tried to lift them, but both forearms filled with pain, and she thought she could discern the grating sensation of bone grinding against bone.

“It wasn’t all that hard, startling your horse, a simple lightning spell that wasn’t even noticed by that fellow with you,” he continued as he stood and walked slowly towards her. “It was very obliging of him to send the other two guards off and lead you so far away from his own horse. You got quite a head start before he could follow you. All I had to do, was wait by the side of the trail, steer your horse into a convenient low branch and let it sweep you off its back. And your guards were so focused on catching your horse, they never noticed you lying on the ground. Of course,” he sniffed, hitching up his robes as he knelt down to straddle her, “My invisibility spell might have helped there.”

“Nooooo…” she moaned. Now that he was closer, she recognized the swarthy skin, the lean and angular features with their pockmarked cheeks, the dead, ice-blue eyes. Memory came back to her. His voice whispering in her ear… his legs spreading her… his hands touching her… “Get off!” She tried to push at him with her arms, tried to ignore the pain, but she didn’t have the strength. He laughed at her. He laughed and shoved her hands out of the way, causing her even more pain, making her gasp and her eyes water.

“Now, now, that’s no way to act. In fact,” he leaned over her, his putrid breath fanning her face, trying to force its way into her mouth, “You haven’t been behaving very well, have you? Not for a slave. At first I was going to punish you for what you did, killing our master, stealing the mark. In fact, I was going to kill you. I tried, several times, you may have noticed.”

She had, remembering the ice cracking over the lake, and the tainted bottles of healing potion, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing his efforts had been noticed.

“But then,” he leaned back, his face uplifted, his hand over his chest as if he had experienced a deeply religious moment, “A miracle. Our master survived the explosion. I should have had more faith. You had killed your owner, certainly, but Vicici was only a man. Our master,” he looked back down at her, and his eyes were filled with an unholy light, “Is a god.”

“You are insane,” she panted, “And so is Corypheus.”

He struck her. He backhanded her hard across her mouth, sending her head flying into the floorboards. “Do not speak so of our master! Do not even dare to speak his name! I should cut out your tongue for such insolence. I may still. But first, I will bring you back to him. Well, your hand, at least. The rest of you, he promised I may keep for myself.”

She felt the bile rise up into the back of her throat, threatening to choke her, as his sweaty fingers stroked the side of her neck.

“That’s why I’ve been away for so long, in case you were wondering where I’d gone. I had to take a little side trip, back to Tevinter. You see, I needed to find some means of getting you safely away from this self-proclaimed Inquisition and back to our master. I feared you wouldn’t come willingly; slave or no, you seem to have gotten it into your head that you are someone of import. Probably because of this mark you stole.”

He tugged at the glove on her left hand, but it was held fast by the fastenings around her wrists. It still hurt, however, making her wince and try to pull away.

“But then I remembered what Vicici did, how he used to control you.” The mage brought a small vial out of his robes, holding it where she could see, giving it a little wiggle in his fingers.

“No,” she whispered, knowing what it was—what it had to be—even before he named it.

“Yes, my dear girl. Opeigh. Now, open up, like a good little slave, and take your medicine. We’ll be back home before you regain your senses.”

“No!” she shoved at him, ignoring the pain, but he had leverage over her, the weight of his body easily keeping her from escaping.

“It’ll be easier if you don’t fight me,” he promised, his free hand making a grab for her head. “I may even heal your arms, before I take your hand, of course. But first, you’ll have to drink this down.”

She fought him. She fought as hard as she could. She kept her mouth closed tight, refused to open it, even when he pinched her nose closed. But he was patient, and persistent, following her mouth and struggling head, the vial unstoppered and ready to pour down her throat the moment her lips parted.

And her lips did part, her body betraying her, her lungs starving for fresh air overriding her determination. She choked, feeling the thick and syrupy liquid fill her mouth, coat her tongue and teeth and the insides of her cheeks. She coughed, and some of the opeigh traveled up the back of her sinuses, making her sputter and her eyes water.

But she swallowed. It was a reflexive action, a defense mechanism against drowning, and in this once case an act more damning than choking to death.

“That’s a good girl,” he cooed over her, leaning in close. She half-choked on some residual opeigh inside her mouth, sending it mixed with spittle to hit the side of his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice. “That’s it. You remember what it’s like, don’t you? How calm you become. How amendable. I remember the one time we were together, how willingly you spread your legs for me.” He gave a little shudder and began unbuttoning the fastenings of her coat. “Perhaps we could have a quick one, before we start for home.”

“Not this time,” she whispered. Her hands had not been idle during the struggle. They had been trapped between their bodies, twisted around and pinned near her waist, near his waist. Despite the pain movement caused, she had closed her fingers around something long and cylindrical, and knew what it had to be. She pulled his dagger out of its sheath and shoved it somewhere into his flesh.

He yelled, as much from surprise as from pain, and pulled back from her, ripping the collar of her tunic. She kicked him off of her legs, rolling and scrambling across the rotting floorboards, fighting to get away. He didn’t pursue her, something she didn’t care to notice at the time, one thought above all others driving her onward.

RUN!

She knew she was in trouble. She knew—oh, Maker, despite everything else that opeigh did to her, despite all it made her forget, that was the one thing she could never forget! She knew what was going to happen, what had already started happening. She could feel the opeigh surging through her blood, suffusing her limbs, weakening her will, that sweet and tempting oblivion calling out to her. Time was against her, the moments slipping away like water through her fingers. She had to escape; this would be her one and only chance to escape, and she had to make it count.

Once outside the cabin, however, she was overwhelmed by a rather large and overlooked problem: she didn’t know where she was. She spun around in a circle, stumbling and blinking stupidly at the scene, but nothing was recognizable. She didn’t know in which direction lay Skyhold. She didn’t know in which direction to run. But, with the cabin behind her, and the Venatori inside, she quickly convinced herself that anywhere was preferable to standing still.

She stumbled off into the snow, bumping into trees, feeling the opeigh creeping through her arms and legs and turning them to jelly. It was getting harder and harder, more and more difficult to keep putting one leg in front of the other, to keep herself moving, to remind herself why she had to keep going, keep walking. Somewhere, somewhere out there, ahead of her she prayed, was Cullen. He would be looking for her. And he would not rest until he found her. She had to give him that chance. She had to get far enough away from the Venatori mage to give Cullen the opportunity to find her first.

It was hard to breathe, the thinner and cooler mountain air feeling so inadequate for the task of filling her lungs. Her body didn’t want to run any longer. Her body didn’t want to do anything, not that it was unable to perform the action, but that there was a lack of self-determination, a disconnection between the part of her mind that was still awake, and the part of her mind that controlled voluntary movement.

Run! she mentally screamed at her legs. Run run run runrunrunrunru…

But it was too late.

The ground seemed to give out beneath her, betraying her, dropping her to the forest loam and rolling, spinning, twirling around and around and around. At long last she came to rest, dizzy, but no longer with the strength to move, with the will to survive. She laid there, staring up at the evening sky, watching the blue fade to violet through the branches of the trees.

Somewhere, deep inside her, on some subconscious level that could no longer affect her situation, she was screaming.


	16. On the Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quickie to say, thank you to all of you who leave comments. I wish I could answer every single one, but I've discovered that doing so falsely inflates the numbers in the story stats. So, consider this a heartfelt response to each and every one of you! *blows kisses*

“We’ve searched alongside the horse’s tracks twice,” Cullen was saying, “But we haven’t found any sign of her. And with the daylight almost gone, I fear the search now will only be harder.”

“That’s why I asked Krem to bring Fear,” Leliana said, her voice conveying more confidence than she felt.

“He won’t be much help. He’s still learning to track.” Cullen seemed determined to remain pessimistic.

Leliana supposed she couldn’t blame him. Though outwardly he appeared calm and professional, deep inside Cullen tended to take certain matters a bit too personally, whether or not he had any control over them. Especially where he felt he was directly responsible. And losing the Inquisitor while teaching her to ride certainly qualified as under his responsibility. Though she sensed there might be something more to what had happened this afternoon, she let the suspicion slide for the time being. It was far more important that they find Peredura, wherever she might be. “Fear knows Peredura. He may, I don’t know, he may be able to sense her somehow, even if she’s gotten up and wandered off under the influence of a concussion.”

“Blessed Andraste. Amnesia. She’s had it before. And I hadn’t even considered…” his voice trailed off, his eyes searching through the trees yet again, as if at that moment, through willpower alone, he could find her.

Nothing could be seen between the trunks but increasing shadows on the moonless evening.

“The torches are lit, ser,” some nameless soldier reported to Cullen’s back. “We’re ready to head out.”

There was hardly a pause before he answered, “Very well.” If Leliana was amazed over the change in his voice and demeanor, she didn’t show it. Cullen was a natural leader, so of course he would set aside his personal fears and feelings while in front of his men. She watched him step forward and lift his face to address the score or more of people who had gathered in the meadow.

“In case you don’t know why we’re here this evening, the Inquisitor lost control of her horse earlier today and it threw her off. Now she’s somewhere in that forest, possibly hurt, possibly lost, possibly unconscious. And it’s our job to find her and bring her safely back to Skyhold. You have all been divided into three groups. The first group will head off to the right of the horse’s tracks. The second group will head off to the left. The third group will come with me. Look for any signs, any tracks of animal or person, any broken branches or clothing snagged on bushes. Investigate every thicket and hollow log you come across. She may have crawled inside someplace to find shelter, and for one reason or another is unable to come out. Leave no stone unturned. Understand? Good. Move out!”

He turned back to where Leliana stood next to Cassandra. “Leliana, go with the first group. If you find her, get her back to Skyhold immediately, but send a runner to me. Cassandra, the same goes for you and the second group.” He didn’t wait for either woman’s acknowledgement, nor did he make any promise to inform them if he happened to find Peredura. Instead he strode up to where Krem was standing beside Fear, who was panting and straining at his leash. Briefly Cullen recalled the first time he’d seen that leash, secured to Peredura’s bed, intended for his own wrist, and a flicker of sympathy beat in his heart for the hound.

“Krem, you and Fear will come with me. Leliana seems to believe that he’ll somehow be able to find the Inquisitor.”

“It is possible, ser,” Krem affirmed. “He spends most of his time with her, knows her scent better than he knows his own. If anyone can pick up her trail, it’s Fear.”

The Mabari gave a sharp bark in agreement.

Cullen gave him a nod of approval before he turned to face the large shadowy figure looming behind Krem. “You’re coming too, I take it.”

Bull stepped up on Krem’s other side. “I am. I want to go with the group that has the best chance of finding her, and my money’s on the hound.”

Cullen only gave a nod in response, readily giving in. The admitted Ben-Hassrath spy was unusually loyal where Peredura was concerned, something Cullen had learned to stop questioning. To one side of the trail, Leliana headed off with Vivienne and Sera and their group of soldiers. To the other side went Cassandra, Solas and Varric with their group of soldiers, including Abbets and Devensport. That left him with Bull, Dorian, and the strange boy, Cole, along with a handful of Bull’s Chargers. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

Though it wasn’t quite nighttime yet, the forest was already dark, their torches hardly able to penetrate past where they placed their feet. Several times someone would mutter a curse, tripping over a half-buried branch or stubbing a toe on an unseen rock. Cullen barely paid them any attention, his eyes studying the ground, sweeping back and forth, counting the tracks of Peredura’s horse, and the tracks left behind by his and Devensport’s horses.

“Cole, may I ask you something?” Dorian’s voice floated forwards to the rest of the group.

“You just did,” Cole responded, “And, yes, of course.”

Dorian gave a long suffering sigh, “Let me rephrase that. May I ask a question about your, er, special talent? The one where you sift through a person’s thoughts?”

“Yes, and yes.”

Bull’s laughter was deep though hushed. “You asked for that one.”

“Fine. Yes. Whatever. Ignore him, Cole. I was wondering, is distance a factor for you? I mean, do you have to be near the person in order to hear their thoughts? Or do you have to know where they are?”

“What are you getting at?” Bull rumbled, but Dorian silenced him with a curt wave.

Cole grew quiet for a moment, and though he continued to walk beside the others, it was like he was someplace else. After a few moments, he spoke, his voice sounding as distant as his behavior. “Holding on to each other, so tight, so close, I can see his cheeks flush in the darkness. He always smiles after, his lips curling with such bliss. Should I have asked him? I wanted to, I wanted to so badly it scared me.”

Dorian drew up short, a mixture of shock and pain on his face. “What… who…”

“Rilienus,” Cole answered simply.

“How… how did you…” he had to pause and swallow the lump in his throat, and when he was able to continue, his voice was unusually husky, “How did you find him, of all people?”

“It was the hurt that drew me. It’s always the hurt, because that’s what I want to do. I want to help the hurt go away.” He turned his cool, washed-out blue eyes towards Dorian. “Did I help?”

Dorian licked his lips. “Ah, yes, well, perhaps we can tackle that particular matter another time. What I was wondering this evening," he had to cough and clear his throat before he could continue, "What I was wondering this evening, specifically, is if you could sense the Inquisitor? Can you find her, without knowing where she is?”

Everyone stopped and stared at the boy, some expectantly, some out of shock, some—like Cullen—mentally kicking himself for not having thought of the idea earlier. Cole stopped too, ducking his head, hiding beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “I’ve been trying to,” he admitted quietly, not sure if he was more uncomfortable with their scrutiny or with his failure, “Ever since we left Skyhold. I thought, for a little while, I thought I felt something that might have been from her. But there’s no more hurt now. And I can’t find her, unless she’s feeling hurt.”

“That’s… comforting, right?” Bull pressed. And Cullen found his heart daring to hope. “I mean, if she was hurt, lying in a ditch somewhere with her skull cracked open, she’d be in pain, right? But the kid here can’t feel her feeling pain. So she’s not hurt, right?”

“It’s not like that,” Cole dashed all their hopes to the ground and pulverized them beneath the heel of his boot. “With her, there’s always hurt. Because of the things she was made to do, to others, to herself. And the hurt lingers, like the scars that will never fade, drowning her every day in a sea of pain. I can always feel her… I could always feel her, but tonight there’s… nothing.”

“Nothing,” Bull repeated, unwilling to let go, “You mean, like she’s asleep?”

“I… I don’t think so…” Cole shrugged. “It’s like the pain has been… forgotten somehow? I don’t understand it. And I haven’t experienced this before. I don’t like it.”

Dorian sighed, setting a sympathetic hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I don't either, Cole.”

They started walking again, Cullen trying desperately not to think about Cole’s ability to reach into people’s minds, or his inability to do so with Peredura. There was some tickle of memory, nagging him over the particular words Cole used, but he ignored it as irrelevant, instead focusing on what they could do, rather than what they could not do. He hastened his steps to reach Krem and Fear, who were taking the lead.

“Anything yet?”

“Not sure, ser,” Krem shook his head. “Fear was acting like he might be catching her scent, but the further we’ve come, the more he whines and gets confused. I think… I think he wants to go back a ways.”

“Go back the way we came?” Cullen repeated.

Fear gave an insistent, almost demanding bark, as if saying, yes, that is precisely what he wanted to do.

Cullen looked ahead to where the other two groups were fanning out, calling out to each other and to Peredura, the light of their torches beginning to disappear into the forest. He sighed and turned away from them to face the hound. “Very well. Lead the way, Fear. It’s your nose we’re following this evening.”

Fear gave another bark in answer, this time sounding like he was saying, yes, ser!

They backtracked a little ways, not too far, just to the point where Peredura’s horse had left the trail. Fear nosed around a bit, snuffling and whining, pacing back and forth, sometimes in a tight circle, but never once looking like he wanted to leave that spot.

“What is it, Fear? What do you smell? Is it Peredura? Was this where she fell? Can you tell which way she went?”

Fear didn’t answer Krem, instead pawing at the ground and making even louder noises of distress.

It was obvious that Fear didn't want to go any further, yet it was obvious that Peredura wasn't there. Cullen felt the hound must have gotten confused somewhere along the trail, and knelt down next to him to lay a calming hand on his shoulder. “It's all right, boy. You’re still learning,” he said softly, stroking the short fur. Then something caught his eye. It was a glint of silver, like a piece of metal, partially buried beneath the muddied snow. “Bring a torch closer,” he commanded, his gloved hand brushing away the grime even before the light grew brighter.

It was a button. It was a silver button, like the ones on Peredura’s coat. It had lain overlooked beneath the snow and muck, until Fear’s pawing had begun to unearth it. Now it lay in Cullen’s hand, growing brighter by the moment as he brushed off the dirt.

“Is that from her jacket or something?”

“Yes,” Cullen answered Bull’s question. “Fear, she was here, wasn’t she? Peredura fell off her horse here. Which way, boy, which way did she go?”

Fear gave an anxious sounding whine, pacing a few feet before returning to Cullen’s side.

“Magic was used recently, somewhere nearby,” Dorian announced suddenly. “I can still feel it; can’t you?”

“Yes,” Cole answered almost eagerly. When Cullen turned to fix him with his fiercest glare, he shrugged and elaborated, “Well, I can. It was a powerful spell. The Fade still sings with it.”

“What was the spell?” Cullen decided not to try to reason out how Cole knew what he knew, but focused on using his knowledge to find Peredura.

“I… no, I can’t see it.”

“Dorian?”

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugged. “I could tell you a spell was used, but not what kind. And if Cole can’t see it…” His words stopped suddenly, and a very dashing smile spread across his face. “Of course! That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

“What would make sense?” Cullen’s patience was wearing thin, his voice growing more harsh.

“A powerful spell, one that you can’t see. Don’t you get it? Someone used an invisibility spell, right here, right were Peredura fell. They must have cast it so you and the others wouldn’t see her when you galloped past after her horse. Then, after you were out of sight, they picked her up and carted her off somewhere.”

Cullen hated hearing how easily he’d been duped, but he had to admit it: Dorian must be right. He stood, the button squeezed tight inside his fist, his lips pressed into a grim line. If he were still a templar, if he were still taking lyrium, he might have sensed the mage nearby, he might have prevented the spell, prevented the abduction…

“Ah, Dorian, I’m not sure that’s something to sound so cheerful about,” Bull warned him.

“No,” Cullen shook his head, panting away his anger and impotence. He tucked the button away, getting himself back under control before speaking, “No, it’s better to know what happened, even if it’s unpleasant or embarrassing. It is a plausible theory, and would explain why her escort and I never found her, and why Fear can’t follow her now. Is that the trouble, Fear? Does Peredura’s trail end here, but another person’s trail starts?”

Again, there was a bark for an answer, Fear understanding Cullen’s questions and doing his best to respond to them.

“Fear, listen to me. It’s possible, very possible, that this other person you’re smelling, knows where Peredura is, or has her with them. So I need to know: can you follow this other person? Can you follow their scent? Lead us to them?”

Fear didn’t bother barking this time, instead taking off through the forest, pulling Krem along.

“Here we go!” Bull cried enthusiastically.

“So that’s what was causing Fear’s confusion,” Dorian seemed overly talkative, even as they hastened to keep up with the hound. “Fear wanted to follow Peredura, but he couldn’t because there was nothing more to follow. There was another person’s trail to follow, but Fear wasn’t supposed to be following that trail…”

“Save your breath for running,” Cullen commanded, hoping to shut the Tevinter mage up. It worked—for the time being.

“He’s hot on the trail now, ser,” Krem called out from the front. “Shall I let him off his lead?”

“No!” Cullen commanded, but it was too late. Fear had taken matters into his own hands—or paws, rather—and slipped the lead himself. He let out a full bay, instinctively signaling to the rest of his pack that he had found the scent, that he was closing in on his quarry. Then he was running off into the night. “After him! Don’t lose sight of Fear! Run!”

It was no use, but they tried regardless. Fear was a Mabari, and could run like the wind, zipping in and around the tree trunks without the need for torchlight. If there had been cursing before when they were following a clear trail, there was even more cursing now as nearly everyone tripped at least once on some unseen obstacle.

Finally Cullen had to call for a halt, mostly to allow everyone to catch their breath and rub at sore and twisted ankles, but also to try to listen and determine in which direction Fear had disappeared.

Krem lifted his head first, having heard it before the others. “Ser, I think he’s that way.”

Cullen tilted his head, cupping a hand around his ear to help. It was hard to hear over his own heavy breaths, but he did hear it. The sharp and fear-inspiring bark of a Mabari on the attack. The next moment he saw a flash of light off in the distance, followed a few seconds later by the roll of thunder almost drowning out the painful whine of an injured hound.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen swore, “Not Fear, too. No! Not Fear!”

He took off at full speed, not caring any longer if the others kept up or fell behind. He knew, by what he had heard, that Fear had been hit by a lightning spell. A tight and bitter ball of dread filled his guts, threatening to unman him.

First Peredura. Then her horse. Now her hound.

Andraste preserve him, but he was cursed. Everything he touched, everyone he knew, always ended up hurt or destroyed.

“Over there!” Bull yelled, barreling up beside him. Cullen glanced to where Bull was pointing, and caught a glimpse of an old shack through the trees. He adjusted his course only slightly, his aim having remained fairly true despite the thickness of the forest, but Bull reached the area before him.

The trees were a little thinner around the shack, and if anyone bothered to look up, they’d see the sky had just turned from deepest violet to full night. No one did, however, all their attention focused on the area right in front of the shack. Two separate tracks led through the snow, one where the steps were stumbling and confused, the other leading off in a different direction with drips of fresh blood melting the snow. There was one form still in the area, however, the Mabari, lying very still in the snow.

Cullen cautiously approached Fear, not wanting to upset or startle the wounded hound. Fear’s side was blackened just at the bottom of his ribs, little whiffs of smoke rising into the night air and carrying with it the stench of singed fur. He was breathing shallow, his pants broken up every now and then by a thin and weak whimper. Cullen scooped up a handful of snow and placed it over the burn, hoping to ease the hound’s discomfort, hoping to calm the wheezing beast. “Krem!” he shouted, perhaps a little harshly, but Krem was the one who allowed Fear to slip his lead, so in a way he was responsible for the Mabari’s injuries. A cough from Bull, however, reminded Cullen to curb his temper and not take out his anger on another man’s subordinate. “Krem, get Fear back to Skyhold. See to it he gets the best of care. You,” he pointed at another of Bull’s Chargers, “What’s your name?”

The blond man only grunted for answer.

“His name’s Grim,” Krem answered for him, kneeling down on the other side of Fear. “Doesn’t talk much.”

“He doesn't have to,” Cullen allowed, brushing snow and fur off his hands and standing up, “He only has to help you carry Fear back to Skyhold. All right, people, we’re splitting up. Bull, take someone with you; follow the trail without blood. You,” he pointed at one of the Chargers he recognized, their resident surgeon, “Stitches, isn’t it? You’re with me. I’m going to follow the bloody trail, and I may want your skills when I find the person at the end of it. The rest of you, search around the area and the cabin, look for anything, any information, a scrap of paper, a discarded shoe, anything that will tell us who has been using this cabin.”

“Ser!”

Cullen stalked off into the night, Stitches hurrying to catch up. Whoever had cast that spell—undoubtedly a mage—had to be nearby, there simply hadn’t been enough time for him to get too far away. And right then Cullen was counting on the blood trail leading to the mage. He felt the need to hurt someone. Badly. Perhaps even maim them. And the mage made a very convenient target.

If Cullen could see himself at that moment, he would have been disgusted. But he was too far gone, caught up in his rage to recognize himself, to see that he was turning back into that old Cullen, the Cullen who’d been tortured by mages, the Cullen who’d seen his friends slaughtered by mages, the Cullen who wanted to see all the mages killed for breaking the circle at Kinloch.

The Cullen he didn’t like very much.

If he took the time to follow his reasoning a little further, he would have to conclude that Peredura would have to have been upright and ambulant to have left the other trail. Such a thought, however, would give him comfort, something he could not allow. He could not let go of his anger, of his hatred. He forced himself to keep it growing, to blame the mage for doing whatever he had done to Peredura. Otherwise… the only other person to blame was himself.

The two of them followed the blood out of the forest to find the trail ended at a river.

“Damn!” he swore, seeing there was no one in sight. His gloved hand closed over the pommel of his sword until the bones of his hand threatened to break.

“Looks like whoever was bleeding, took to the river,” Stitches surmised, holding his torch over the narrow crease along the shore where the keel of a small boat had rested and recently been pushed into the stream. “Should we look for him downstream, or up?”

The taste of disappointment was bitter on his tongue, his voice tired and defeated. “I doubt we’ll find him upstream; the current is too strong for one man to row against, especially if he’s wounded. And it would do no good to follow him downstream; we’d never catch him on foot. He’s probably halfway to Lake Calenhad by now.” He took a moment longer to stare at the swiftly flowing river before he turned around and started back for the cabin. “I’ll send men after him, in the morning, have them comb both sides of the river, see if we can pick up his trail again.”

Stitches nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

“Let’s get back to the others. The Inquisitor must be at the end of that other trail, and she may need our help.” He stalked through the night, his pace steady and sure. As soon as he found that other trail, he was going to follow it no matter where it lead. He had been denied the mage; he’d be damned before he was denied Peredura.

* * *

“Which one do you think we will find, hm?” Dorian asked, trotting along after Bull. “The Inquisitor? Or her abductor?”

“The Inquisitor, of course,” Bull answered confidently. “She’s one tough little lady, she is. No matter the shit that’s been dumped on her in her life, she always pulls through. So I’d be willing to lay odds, she found a way to stab her abductor and escape.”

“How do you know that?” Dorian pressed. “She could just as easily have been the one stabbed, or bleeding from some other wound. She did fall off her horse, after all.”

“Nope, this is her trail,” Bull replied confidently. “See the size of the footprint? Small, like the Boss’s feet. And it’s confused, stumbling, like she doesn’t know where she is going. It would make sense, if she’d been knocked out, abducted, woke up in that shack with no idea where she was, racing outside only to find herself in an unfamiliar forest. There!” he stopped and pointed, “Up ahead. I think I see… ah, craaaaaaap!”

Dorian knew how he felt, stopping so suddenly he had to grab on to Bull’s arm holding the torch to keep himself from pitching face-first into a snowbank. “You don’t think she…”

“…fell down the ravine?” Bull finished, staring at where the trail disappeared over the side of a steep slope. He patted Dorian’s hand and dislodged it gently, before walking up to carefully peek over the edge. He already knew what he would see, but he needed to see it anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, she did.” He could just make her out in the torchlight, nothing more than a shadowy form, but there was something about it that told him it was undoubtedly her. After all, it wasn’t as if this was the first time she’d fallen off the side of a cliff. Then an idea struck him. “Hey, Dorian, how much do you weigh?”

“That’s a strange question to ask at a time like this.”

“I was just thinking, it might be easier if I lowered you down there on a rope. Then you could tie the rope around the both of you, and I’d pull you back up.”

“Ah, well, yes, that would be an excellent idea, only we have no rope.”

Bull grunted. “Good point. Hoist your skirts, mage-boy. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

“This is not a skirt,” Dorian protested, “It’s a robe.”

“Same difference,” Bull shrugged, starting down the slope a little further along from where Peredura went over the side. He didn’t want to kick loose stones and gravel down on top of her. “It’s long and it hinders your legs, so lift it up and out of the way.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” Dorian huffed, but did as Bull suggested, starting down after the lumbering oaf.

“If you trip and fall because your legs got tangled in those heavy skirts, I’m not going to catch you and set you back down on your dainty little slippers,” Bull paused a moment to look back up and see how he was doing. “Hey, I didn’t know you were wearing leggings beneath that.”

Dorian smirked and gave his skirts, er, robes a little flourish. “Disappointed, are you? Hoping to catch a bit of skin? A peek at something a little higher up, perhaps?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” he shrugged like it was no big deal, starting back down the ravine again, “A man’s got to take his fun where he can find it.”

Dorian made a disgusted noise, feeling an impulse to throw something at the qunari’s head, like one of the stones that kept slipping out from beneath his boots. He settled for a grumbled insult instead. “Ox-man.”

“Vint.”

Neither of them knew of the brief smile that flickered across the other’s face.

The going was difficult, the ground slippery, loose gravel and dirt causing numerous close calls for both of the men. “Shit,” Bull grumbled, the torch slipping from his hands after one particularly nasty slide. He watched it tumble and spin down the slope, end over end, to land in a snowbank at the bottom, quickly extinguishing itself.

“Bad luck, that,” Dorian piped up from somewhere above him.

Bull really didn’t want to answer, unable to do so in a civil manner and knowing this wasn’t the time to start a real fight. But so help him, if the next thing out of that Vint’s mouth wasn’t something helpful…

“Mind if I lend a hand?” Soft blue light began to glow, sending a long and distinctive shadow downhill to swallow Bull. He looked up and had to smile, seeing how Dorian was making the tip of his staff glow from where it was securely strapped to his back. “Is that bright enough for you to see, or do you require more.”

All right, Bull thought to himself, maybe this one Vint wasn’t so bad, after all. But he wasn’t going to let him get the last word. “You know what? If you can make it sparkle, that’d be really cool.”

Dorian wasn’t quite sure if he was joking or serious. “Another time, perhaps. Shall we continue?”

They made it the rest of the way down the slope without any more major mishaps. Bull was the first to reach Peredura’s side, Dorian a half-step behind him, his staff continuing to glow and give them enough light to see by. “Hey, Boss?” Bull called softly, seeing as her eyes were open, though she made no sign that she had seen Bull much less recognized him. “Boss! You gave us quite a scare, you know. Hey… Boss?” He touched her cheek, but she continued to stare unseeingly into the night sky.

“Is she… vishante kaffas… is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Bull confirmed, “Her chest is rising and falling with her breath, see?” He pointed at the opened front of her coat, the blue sash torn and dangling from her waist. Her chest was moving, slow and steady and calm, despite the obvious danger or pain she must be in.

“But she’s…” Dorian leaned in closer, willing the light to glow brighter. He could see that the collar of her tunic had been torn, possibly in the fall down the ravine, pale skin and paler scars barely visible by the light of his staff, “She’s just… lying there… not moving. It doesn’t appear as if she's recognized us, or even hears us.”

“She’s alive,” Bull repeated, stubbornly holding on to the positive with the teeth of a Mabari. “Knocked senseless by her fall, maybe, but alive.” Carefully, so as not to dislodge her hair from around her mutilated ears—he remembered at the last moment that Dorian didn’t know about her past—he ran his fingers over her scalp. He was searching for a bump or blood or anything that might be causing her lack of response, and though he found nothing wrong, he felt little relief. Without a head injury, he had no idea what could be causing her strange behavior.

Her expression remained blank, her eyes refusing to focus on either of them, even after Dorian flashed his smiling visage in front of her eyes and snapped his fingers in front of her nose. Frustrated by her lack of response, he tried to determine for himself why she wouldn’t—or couldn’t answer. He found one side of her face was darkening with a bruise, her lip cut and bleeding, but neither injury was severe enough to cause a concussion. Turning her face the other way, he saw it was discolored by something that wasn’t a part of her skin or scars. Dorian’s fingertips reached out and touched that corner of her mouth, finding some sort of sticky residue clinging to her lips and part of her cheek. “What is this? Not blood, certainly, but it looks like it drooled out of her mouth.” He dabbed a bit on his finger and brought it up to his nose to sniff. “Smells like…” he sniffed again, “Smells sweet, almost too sweet. Could she have been drugged?”

“Would explain a few things,” Bull agreed, “Like all that stumbling she did along the way, and why she won’t—or can’t—answer us.” He twisted to look at the top of the slope. “First things first, we need to get her back up there. Help me lift her up, and I can climb out of here with her over my shoulders.”

Dorian thought they had other options available to them, but as they were already down there, they might was well carry her out before going for help. He reached for her hands, thinking to untie the leather straps holding her wrists together. “Nah, leave her hands tied,” Bull advised. “Just loop her arms around my neck. It’ll be easier for me to climb, if I don't' have to hold on to her.”

“It’s your neck,” Dorian quipped. “But if she strangles you, don’t expect me to carry your sorry ass out of this ravine. I’ve already carried you once before up the side of a mountain, and it’s an experience I do not care to repeat.”

“When was this?” Bull asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“It was just before the avalanche at Haven. We were staying behind for a time while the others escaped, helping Peredura with the trebuchets. Come on, my dear, let’s get you sitting up, shall we?”

She sat up with very little help, causing both men to look at each other with nearly identical incredulous expressions. Dorian was the first to find his voice, testing his theory by asking her to do something else. “Er, Peredura, do you think you can loop your arms around Bull’s neck? Be mindful of his horns, now. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Again, Peredura easily complied with Dorian’s suggestion. Bull held off any comment until her arms were safely secured around his neck and shoulders. He cleared his throat, turning around carefully until she was hanging against his back. “Go on with your story. We were, um, helping with the trebuchets,” he prompted, hoping the mage would understand and follow his lead, going back to talking about something other than her condition. He wasn’t sure how much she could understand, but if she was aware on some level of what was going on, he didn’t want to upset her.

“Ah, right, well,” Dorian seemed to understand, giving a nod in answer. And he was always ready to listen to the sound of his own voice. He picked up his narration as they started climbing. “Do you remember getting hit on the head? No? Pity. It was a spectacular blow. A red templar had come up behind you on the left and swung a club-like arm at your head. He hit you with so much force, I thought I heard your teeth rattle. You dropped to your knees like a stone, allowing Peredura a clean shot; she stuck an arrow directly through the corrupted templar’s eye. Yet the damage had been done. You tried to regain your feet, but only managed to stumble into the trebuchet and knock it slightly off target. We immediately knew you could no longer fight, and she ordered me to make sure you got to safety. It seemed to take forever, lugging your dead weight up after the others, all the while you were, er…” his voice trailed away, his cheeks tinging pink as he remembered Bull’s ceaseless innuendos, and the offer to wrestle with him in the nude.

“I was what?” Bull asked after he had grown quiet for too long, pausing a moment to shift Peredura away from his neck, taking hold of her arms to do so. He felt something odd, like the bones of her forearms were shifting where there shouldn’t be any movement, and swore softly under his breath. He knew, however, that there was nothing to be done for it, not right then, and in the state she was currently in, she wasn’t complaining. He hoped it was because she wasn’t feeling pain, and not because she was unable to show it.

“What was that you said?” Dorian asked, hoping for a distraction.

Bull sighed, giving in, knowing he’d have to tell him sooner or later. “I, er, think her arms are broken.”

Dorian stopped climbing for a full count of three before he found his voice. “Set her down, again, man! Untie her! You can’t let her hang like that from her arms when…”

“There’s no help for it,” Bull argued, refusing to stop. “Look, I can’t carry her and climb—I’m gonna need both my hands for this. So the only way to get her out of here, is if she’s hanging onto me, and she can hang on easier if we leave her hands tied.”

Dorian hated to admit he was right, but there truly was no other option, not at this time. He made a disgusted sound, but allowed Peredura to remain where she was. “Oh, all right then, but at least let me cast a spell so she won’t be injured any further.”

He quickly and expertly drew his staff and cast his spell, all in one fluid motion. Bull stopped long enough for the spell to take effect, and could feel the tingle of magic wrapping around her form and protecting her from further harm. He blinked back down at Dorian, impressed, and had to admit, “That was… pretty good, for a skirt.”

“Yes, well, the spell will only last for so long, and protect from just so much more injury before it dissipates, so don’t waste time jabbering.”

“Yes, ser,” Bull’s lips drew into a suggestive smile. He did love ribbing Dorian, the easy way his feathers would ruffle, the cute sputtering, the huffy quality to his voice. He left off teasing for now, however, and returned to the earlier topic of conversation. “So, what was it I was doing, while we were escaping Haven?”

“Oh, ah,” he paused to bite his lip and think of something he could say that wouldn’t be as embarrassing as the truth. “You were concussed, of course. Saying all sorts of nonsense. Going on and on about, um, silly matters and the like. Anyway, my point is, I’ve done that once already; I’m not going to do that again!”

Bull smirked, “All right, all right, Vint, don’t get your silky panties in a twist. Just keep your staff upright and bright, will ya?”

Dorian sniffed. “They’re satin, not silk, you barbaric behemoth.”

Bull laughed again, needing the excuse. It was hard for him to keep his spirits up when Peredura was acting so strangely. And her state was oddly familiar somehow, not that he’d ever seen her this way before, but he had seen others acting like she was, staring unseeingly, unable or unwilling to talk or move unless prompted by others. It was…

“Bull! Dorian! You found her!”

Bull risked a glance up the cliff to find Cullen’s face above them, his expression indiscernible in the pale light of Dorian’s staff. “Commander,” he acknowledged as he returned his attention to climbing the steep slope. “Did you find anyone along the other trail?”

“No, it lead to the river. Whoever left that trail escaped downstream in a boat. Where was Pere… er, the Inquisitor?”

“At the bottom of the ravine. She’s alive, conscious even, but, ah…”

“What?” Cullen pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop for a moment, not even long enough to allow them to finish climbing. He stayed near the edge, watching them, his hand out and ready to assist them. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”

“Ah, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Bull sighed, knowing there was no way to hide her condition—not from Cullen, at least. They might be able to fool the others, maybe order Peredura to keep her eyes closed and pretend she was sleeping, but Cullen was right there, taking his hand, pulling him up the last couple of feet and getting a good look at the Inquisitor.

“What…?” his voice sounded lost, confused, as he stared at her unseeing eyes.

“Help me up, would you, Commander? That’s a good fellow,” Dorian called. Distractedly Cullen reached his hand down to Dorian, all the while he refused to take his eyes off of Peredura. Bull walked a few paces from the edge of the slope before kneeling carefully down on a clear patch of snow. “We suspect she’s been drugged,” Dorian began once he reached the top. He spoke softly so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard, keeping hold of Cullen’s arm and preventing him from racing to her side. “She’s awake, and… aware of us… on some level at least. But she acts as if she has no will of her own. She’ll do whatever we tell her, like looping her arms around Bull’s neck, even though, er…”

“What?” his voice was now dark, demanding, turning to pierce Dorian with his best glare. “Even though what?”

Dorian swallowed, knowing it would be foolish to try to keep the truth from him, “Her arms are broken.”

Cullen looked like he would rip their heads off with his bare hands. He didn’t, thankfully, instead taking the time to note the condition of the slope, and approximately how far down she had fallen, and looking back to where Bull was gently laying her on the ground. “You could have called for help.”

Dorian nodded, “We could have, but we were already at the bottom with her when we discovered her condition, and since we had to climb back out anyway, why make the extra trip?”

Cullen nodded, but he could not let the matter rest. “Is she… You said she was drugged with something? Can she feel pain? Or is that numbed somehow by the drug?”

The mage shook his head, “We don’t know. We don’t even know what was used. Only that she’s shown no signs of distress. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Cullen swallowed but didn’t answer.

“She’s forgotten,” Cole sighed, making all three of them jump.

“When did you get here?” Cullen demanded, thinking he had left Cole back at the shack with the others, preferring to follow Peredura's trail alone. He strode up to where Cole was standing at Bull’s shoulder. The qunari looked like he was about to have a heart attack himself, the kid’s voice coming so suddenly out of nowhere.

“I came as soon as I found her,” Cole answered, looking calmly at them through his lanky bangs, “I’ve been looking for her, too, but it’s been hard. She’s forgotten her pain. She’s forgotten everything. It’s easier, she knows, to forget, to let herself forget, even though it doesn’t really help. That’s how I found her,” Cole looked down at her blank face, “The nothingness. There’s a kind of pain there, too, in nothing, a sort of loss of self that hurts more than anything else ever could, even if she can’t feel it. Does that make sense?”

“As long as it makes sense to you,” quipped Dorian.

“It doesn’t,” Cole admitted, “But it worked. It helped me find her. And you found her, too.”

“Yes, we did… how did you say you found her?”

Cole blinked at Dorian’s question. “I said I found the pain she felt because of the nothingness.”

“No, that wasn’t it…”

“She’s forgotten everything,” Cullen answered, his brain at long last beginning to work, remembering Peredura’s description of…

“Opeigh! That’s it!” Dorian exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That’s the sticky residue on the side of her face. That’s the drug she was given. I’ve heard of it, back home. There’s some unsavory sorts of magisters who would use such a drug on their, er, more unruly servants.”

“Slaves,” Bull grumbled, remembering what Peredura had once told them, months ago, when she had confessed to being an elf from Tevinter.

“Slaves,” Dorian gave in, “Yes, well, I’ve never treated any of my servants thus, but there are those who are less, shall we say, scrupulous. It’s a dangerous drug, highly addictive, and makes the slave forget everything, leaving them in a sort of mindless stupor. But I didn’t know it was used here in Orlais.”

“It’s not known here,” Cullen agreed.

“You know what this means, right?” Bull asked Cullen more than the others.

“It means it was a Tevinter Mage who abducted our dear Inquisitor,” Dorian answered, missing Bull’s deeper meaning. “Undoubtedly one who is working for Corypheus.”

A male mage, Cullen thought to himself, remembering the male mage who had been trying to kill Peredura back in Haven. The would-be assassin had been absent since before the avalanche, however; could it have been because he needed to go back to Tevinter for some opeigh? Did he have knowledge of Peredura’s addiction, or was it unlucky happenstance? “Maker’s breath.”

“Good heavens,” Dorian swallowed, “I hope no one thinks I’m a suspect. I do sort of fit the description.”

“Don’t be stupid; you were in Skyhold when she went missing,” Cullen dismissed him, wanting the mage to shut it so he could focus on his own thoughts. Peredura had an opeigh addiction, though she hadn’t taken any for months. Yet thanks to his own difficulty with lyrium addiction, he had to wonder how she would react to this. Would her body remember the effects, and start craving more? Would she remember how blissful the forgetfulness was, and even after coming out of this stupor, would she go looking for more opeigh, preferring that state to her current one of closing rifts and fighting demons and facing Corypheus…

“Commander? What are your orders?”

Bull’s question dragged him out of his ever downward spiraling thoughts. Whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen was out of his hands. There were other matters, however, that he could focus on, matters he could affect.

“Bull, get Peredura to Skyhold as quickly and as safely as you can. Dorian, go with him. Try to remember everything you can about opeigh, anything that might help her recover from this. Make her recuperation as easy as possible for her.”

“There’s not much to do but let it wear off,” he shrugged, “Which shouldn’t be too difficult to get her through. It’s not like she’s ever had opeigh before, much less developed an addiction to it.”

Bull and Cullen refused to look at each other.

“I suppose we’ll need to signal the others that we’ve found her,” Cullen continued. “And I’ll want more men here, to finish searching the cabin, and along the river, see if we can't find where the bastard came to shore.”

“Ah! Leave that to me,” Dorian whipped out his staff once more. He twirled it end over end, his other hand poised dramatically, before he swung and pointed the tip straight up into the night sky. Sparks shot out from the talisman, red and blue and green and white, bursting large and bright high above the tops of the trees. “That should do the trick, no? I’m sure they’ll coming running from whatever part of the forest they’re in. And we’ll send more men back here, once we reach Skyhold.”

“Very well,” he agreed, hating having to let them take her away. But there was nothing he could do for her, or her hound, for that matter; he knew next to nothing about healing burns or setting bones. He did, however, have plenty of work here that needed his supervision. The sooner he started on that, the better he would feel. “You should get going.”

He stared hard at Peredura, unable to take his eyes away until Bull picked her up and started for Skyhold. Then he turned, too, and started for the cabin before the fireworks had a chance to fade.

From a couple of miles away, Varric lifted his head to stare at the fireworks display, visible through a break in the forest canopy. “Told you he sparkled,” he commented dryly to Solas.


	17. A Dream Within a Dream

Dorian’s foot faltered, missed the step, and nearly pitched the rest of him face-first into the stairs. He let out a small cry, his hands grasping for the railing, which creaked threateningly beneath his sudden weight.

“Careful,” Bull’s voice called down to him, “My hands are full right now. If you fall, I won’t be able to catch you.”

Dorian leaned his backside against the outside wall, deeming it stronger and sturdier than the wooden railing. He braced his hands on his knees while he struggled to catch his breath. “Ah, but you’d… like that, wouldn’t you? Any excuse… to lay your hands on me.”

Bull stopped and turned, Peredura still in his arms, and stared at Dorian. “Really? You’re standing there, nearly out of breath, and rather than saving your strength, you flirt with me? I’m flattered.” His wide lips pulled up into a warm smile.

The mage made a noise of disgust. “I meant… killing Vints… I’m a Vint… you’d like to… oh, never mind!” He didn’t know why he had said what he said, habit perhaps, or boredom. Climbing the seemingly endless flights of stairs in Peredura’s tower was mind numbing. Especially after their race through the forest at night to reach Skyhold, Bull egging him on, goading him to keep pace. Speaking of which…

“Come on, Vint, we’re nearly there. Just a couple more flights.” He glanced up, “In fact, I can see the door to her chambers. Two, no, three more landings, and you can sit down on a warm comfy couch with big fluffy pillows and take a nice little nap.”

Dorian looked at him with daggers in his eyes. “Festis bei… umo… canavarum!”

Bull laughed at his panting curse. “You know I speak Tevene, right? And I won’t be the death of you, not unless you’ve done something recently I don’t know about, like burned down an orphanage, or ravished a sanctuary full of virgins, something like that.”

“Not today, I’m afraid,” he pushed himself off the wall and started climbing the eternal staircase. “All I’ve been doing is chasing your ass all over the place. No!” he commanded, holding up a hand when Bull looked at him again, “Don’t say it!”

Wisely the qunari chose not to continue teasing him.

Dorian heard Bull above him, his heavy steps on every stair, shuffling around the corners at every landing, the creak of hinges as he opened Peredura’s door. He couldn’t make himself care, however, or even lift his face to look, every ounce of his energy focused on keeping his feet moving, upwards and forwards, turning left whenever he bumped into a wall, so he could continue his slow progress up the next section of stairs.

Maker, how he wished this day would end.

Then strong hands were there, one taking his wrist and draping his arm across broad shoulders, the other so secure at his side he was nearly swept off his feet. “No,” he protested, his head swimming, “You should be… carrying… Peredura…”

“She’s safe and sound on her bed,” Bull answered, his voice soft. “And you’re exhausted. I came back to help you.”

“Why?”

Bull took a moment to think of a reason that Dorian would accept, before he could answer. “Because the Boss cares about you. And she’ll never forgive me, if I let you fall down all these stairs and break your neck. Now, shut up. Save your strength. She’s gonna need you, to help her get over the opeigh.”

“That won’t be much of a fuss,” he protested. “It's dangerous in people who've developed a taste for it. But she was never addicted, so it should be a simple matter of waiting for the drug to wear off.”

Bull didn’t answer, but Dorian was beginning to hear his silence.

They reached the top, and Dorian let out a long and contented sigh. Peredura’s bedchamber was spacious, appointed in rich fabrics and varnished woods. The fire had been lit earlier and stoked into blazing warmth, something Dorian deeply appreciated, being used to warmer climates. “Ah, this is more like it. All nice and warm and cozy. And tastefully done. A fellow could appreciate a woman with such elegant style.”

Bull smiled, relieved to have a topic he could talk about. “As I understand it, Josephine made most of the purchases, but I’m sure she’d be flattered by your approval.” He set Dorian down on the promised couch and tried to lift his feet up.

“No time for that,” Dorian waved him off. “The spell is dissipating. I’ll need to cast another…”

“No, you won’t. She’s safe and sound in her own room. All she needs now is a healing potion.”

The two men suddenly exchanged a look.

“Did you, er, think to bring any with you, before we started climbing all those stairs?”

“No,” Bull admitted, slightly sheepishly. “Um, you?”

Dorian shook his head.

Bull’s shoulders finally sagged with fatigue. “Ah, crap,” he sighed, looking over his shoulder at the head of the stairs. He was not looking forward to trekking all the way down to the base of the tower, and all the way back up again. But there was no help for it, Dorian certainly was in no shape to make the trip, and he didn't trust that someone else would think to grab a couple of bottles before coming up after them.

“Maybe she has one or two here, in her chamber?”

Bull nodded, brightening a little with the hope. “Hey, yeah, she could. It’s worth a look, at least, before I have to go all the way back downstairs. I’ll check over by her desk.”

“I’ll check in this closet, here,” Dorian grunted as he reached his feet. He waved Bull off before he could touch him this time, sending him on his way as he shuffled over to the closet.

“You know,” Bull started, opening and closing drawers, automatically taking inventory of what he found, even as he searched for any potions, “You’re fairly exhausted, after tonight’s little adventure. I thought you were in better shape than that.”

“I am, thank you for noticing,” Dorian quipped, “But beyond running through half a forest and climbing this infernal tower, I’ve also had to cast several spells. It took intense concentration to keep my staff continually glowing. And every so often, I had to recast the barrier spell that protected our dear Inquisitor. Not to mention the fireworks display; that took a lot of willpower, all at once. So, yes, I am quite knackered.”

“So, you’re saying you wouldn't mind a little lyrium to recharge your magical reserves?”

Dorian didn’t want to turn around, figuring he was being teased again, but he heard the distinctive tinkle of a bottle being tapped by a fingernail. He leaned back from the closet, it had been a fairly fruitless search anyway, and slowly turned to look at Bull.

He could feel his mouth water, seeing the little blue vial in Bull’s thick gray fingers. Blue, the beautiful color of lyrium. He sighed deeply. “Oh, how I love you.”

“Dorian!” Bull chuckled, “I knew it!”

“I… er… I was speaking to the bottle of lyrium, you degenerate! Here. Stop teasing and bring it to me,” he commanded, holding his fingers out and snapping impatiently. He hoped the haughty air might cover his slip. Vishante kaffas, had he just said what he thought he said? To an ox-man? He must be exhausted out of his mind.

Bull allowed the cover-up, for now, at least. It was something he might have to look into later, of course. But tonight wasn’t the time and Peredura’s bedchamber definitely wasn’t the place. He walked over to Dorian, the vial held lightly in his fingertips, and allowed the mage to take it from his hand.

Dorian didn’t speak, not even to thank Bull, unstoppering the vial and bringing it eagerly to his lips. He anticipated the taste of the lyrium, the feel of it flowing down his throat, the well of magic inside him refilling…

He stopped, the edge of the bottle pressed against his lips. Not a drop had touched his tongue, because he sensed something was wrong.

Bull was looking at him closely, tilting his head. “You… waiting for a toast?”

Dorian blinked at him. “What? No. It’s just…” he pulled the vial back, looking at it closely. “It’s not…” he sniffed suspiciously at the contents. “Oh! This is not lyrium.” He held the small blue vial out at arm’s length.

“If it’s not lyrium,” Bull started, leaning forwards to sniff at the bottle himself, “Then what is it?”

“I believe,” he dabbed a little on his finger, and touched it lightly to his tongue, “It’s a, ah, sleeping… sleeping draught…” His words were swallowed by a yawn. “Excuse me.”

Bull raised his one good eyebrow. “Really.”

“Oh, the yawn was my own. Yes, this is definitely a sleeping draught. A powerful one. I could smell the embrium as soon as I unstoppered the vial. And crystal grace comes through fairly strong in the taste, as well as a hint—just a hint—of some sort of lotus, undoubtedly used more for its soporific qualities than as an hallucinogen.” He held the vial out again, raising his own eyebrow, “Care to test my theory?”

“No, thanks, I’m the one that’s gotta run back downstairs for some healing potions, remember?” Bull stepped back a pace, hands behind his back, before he tried to turn the tables, “Unless you want to do the running…”

He scoffed, “Far be it from me to interfere with your exercise routine. Besides, I, um, have to cast that barrier spell on Peredura, again, to keep her safe until your return.”

Bull shot him a shit-eating grin, then winked. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try not to fall asleep while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He watched Bull leave, listened to the door close at the base of the stairs, and sat down tiredly on the side of the bed. “Well, my dear, it’s just you and me now, isn’t it?”

Peredura didn’t answer.

Dorian looked closer at her, and found her eyes were open slightly, though continuing to stare at nothing. Not knowing how large of a dose she had been given, he wasn’t sure when the opeigh would start wearing off, but he hoped it would be soon. “Ah, you dear, sweet child. You finally get your Commander all to yourself, and this happens. Life certainly hasn’t been very fair to you, as of late.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair off of her face, revealing the scarred cheek. Again he had that tickle of memory, that nagging suspicion that they had met before, that he should know her face, that somewhere, at some time in the past, their paths had crossed…

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he sighed, not realizing he was talking out loud. “Here, you look a bit uncomfortable. Let’s do something about that, shall we?”

He leaned over and tugged very gently on her boots, sliding them carefully from her feet. Next he removed the rest of her ruined coat, deciding the room was warm enough she didn’t need the extra clothing. And it was torn, irreparably damaged, not to mention filthy, soaked through with snow and caked in mud. He tossed it off to the side to land in some corner where he was sure some servant would eventually find it and remove it.

“Better? No, you still look a bit awkward. How about a pillow or two? Something to cushion your head. Here, let me lift you up and…”

One of Dorian’s hands slipped along the side of her head while the other brought in a pillow. He didn’t set her back down right away, however, feeling something rather strange beneath his sensitive digits. It was on the side of her head, near her ear, another scar possibly, long and curved and…

He slipped his other hand against her other ear, and felt the same sort of scarring.

“I… I’ve never noticed these scars before…”

Peredura remained passive beneath his touch, eyes blank, no sign that she had heard him or could answer him. He lifted the hair back just far enough to confirm both her ears had been cut…

He pulled his hands away quickly as if he had been burned. With wide eyes he looked once more at the collar of her tunic, where it had been ripped, showing a bit of skin from beneath. Fingers shaking, he moved the edges of the rip a little, revealing a bit more of her scars. Long, curved, precise scars, not at all like the scars on her cheek. The scars on her body were deliberate, carved into her flesh with purpose, and all too familiar.

“Vishante kaffas.”

He needed air. He needed cold, piercing air, stabbing at his lungs, stinging his eyes, clearing his head. He staggered to his feet, not wanting to look at her, not wanting to see…

But he could see. In his mind’s eye, he could see her, the tips of elven ears pointing out of her long brown hair, her posture submissive as she followed behind her master…

He hadn’t seen her for more than a moment or two, his eyes more focused on his father and the blood mage he had invited into their home. But he had looked at her to find she had been looking at him, and their eyes had met…

“Vishante kaffas!”

He reeled away from the bed and somehow managed to find the balcony doors. He yanked one open, thrusting his head and chest out into the cold night breeze, gulping down the air as a fish would gulp down water.

He knew her. And he could not help but wonder, did she know him? If so, had she told the others? Had she told her advisors about him, his past, his father, his… passions?

“Hey, Dorian. Look who I found on the stairs, coming up to check on the Boss. And,” Bull’s voice rolled through the room like thunder, causing Dorian to turn around to stare dumbly at him, “He brought a bag full of medicinal supplies. Including healing potions.” Bull slapped the shoulder of Stitches, who staggered slightly under the blow.

“What?” Dorian blinked at him.

Stitches answered. “I wasn’t much use to the Commander out there, searching the river, so he sent me back here to see what I could do for the Inquisitor.”

“I came as well,” Cassandra added, bringing up the rear of the little group. “She will need someone here, when she awakens, someone she trusts, someone she knows.”

“Yes,” Dorian swallowed, “Yes, that sounds… reasonable.” He stared at Cassandra, but if she knew anything personal about him, she showed no sign.

“Damn, Dorian, you’re looking pale beneath that tan of yours. Maybe you should come with me, get some rest.”

He swung his head around to see Bull standing at his side, about to take his elbow and lead him away. “What? No, I need…” he looked back at Peredura, but she continued to simply lie there, her secrets locked behind the malaise of opeigh. “I need a drink.”

Bull gave a laugh. “Fine. Drinks first, then it’s off to bed. Come on. The Boss will be fine, now. Stitches and Cassandra will take good care of her.”

He didn’t answer, but he did allow Bull to pull him towards the stairs.

“One moment, Dorian,” Cassandra’s voice stopped them short, preventing his escape. Feeling like he was facing the hangman’s noose, he lifted his eyes up to her. “About the opeigh. Is there anything we should do to make this easier for her?”

He licked his lips. He knew Vicici’s reputation, had heard stories about his power—about his favorite slave and how he controlled her. “She’s going to have a rough time of it,” he changed his earlier position, now knowing that she had been drugged for years by her master. “It might be better, more merciful, if she slept through the worst of it. I believe there’s a sleeping potion there, beside the bed, that should do the trick.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra nodded. She watched Dorian leave with Bull before she reached for the potion. “I think Dorian’s exhausted himself, using so much magic, but Bull will see to it he gets his rest. This is strange.”

“What’s strange?” Stitches asked. He had been pushing the sleeves up Peredura’s arms to get a good look a the bruised and swollen flesh. He glanced up now and saw Cassandra holding the small blue vial.

“I thought this sort of bottle is only used for lyrium.”

“Ah, I remember this,” Stitches took it from her fingers. “The Inquisitor came to me, a few weeks ago, and asked if I could make a sleeping draught, the most powerful one possible. That was a little odd, of course, but then she asked if I could put it in a lyrium bottle. At the time I had no idea why she wanted such a thing, but who am I to question the Inquisitor?” He handed the vial back.

“When was this,” Cassandra pressed, suspicion creeping into her mind and wanting confirmation, “Exactly.”

“Ah, let’s see,” Stitches sighed, scratching at his close-cropped scalp, “The Inquisitor had just gotten back from searching the ruins at Haven. That very day, in fact. I remember, because she brought back a couple of crates of lyrium they’d found. That’s how she got that vial, after one of the templars had finished with it.”

“I thought the Chargers had gone with her to search Haven.”

“Most of them, sure, but not me. I was still helping the other surgeon with all the wounded. The bones in her arm aren’t badly broken, not like her leg the last time. Let me check for anything else, then we’ll feed her a healing potion.”

Cassandra held the bottle, her thoughts plodding methodically, as Stitches finished his examination. He was careful, circumspect, not removing any clothing, and pushing out of the way only what he had to. Another thought occurred to her, and this time she shared it. “You know about her scars, don’t you.”

“What scars?”

Cassandra wasn’t fooled. “You’ve never spoken about them? To anyone?”

Stitches shrugged. “Why would I? She’s the Inquisitor, the one who pays us, the one we work for.” He looked up and held Cassandra’s gaze steadily. “Look, the Chief likes her. I’ve never seen him so loyal with an employer before. So, yeah, sure, I’ll keep her secrets. Wouldn’t want to piss off Iron Bull, anyway. Hand me a green bottle from my bag, will you?”

“There’s nothing else broken?” she passed him the desired bottle.

“Nothing, and the arms weren’t that bad, just that both were broken. Oh, there’s some bruising along her side, probably from the fall down the hill, but nothing serious. We get this potion down her, and she’ll be healed by tomorrow—er, this evening,” he amended, seeing as the sky was beginning to lighten with the dawn.

Cassandra nodded, watching him carefully pour the liquid into her mouth. Peredura, awake yet unaware, swallowed obediently. “What do you think about Dorian’s advice? About having her sleep through the drug wearing off?”

Stitches scratched at his scalp again, setting the empty bottle aside. “Don’t know, really. I haven’t had much experience with that sort of thing. I’d guess his advice is as good as any. You gonna use that?” he pointed at the little blue vial.

“Might as well,” she picked it up again.

“Don’t give her too much,” Stitches suggested, picking up his bag. “It is fairly powerful. That whole vial there, small as it is, could keep a girl her size asleep for two, maybe three days. Excuse me, Seeker, I’m gonna go check on her hound. I don't know if that other surgeon’s had much experience with animals, but I have a bit. And I know she’s gonna want her dog with her, when she’s over this.”

“Thank you, Stitches, for… everything.” Cassandra put extra emphasis on the last word, leaving no doubt what she meant.

He smiled. “Ah, don’t mention it. I’ve kind of grown fond of her, too. Good night, er, morning, whatever.”

Cassandra inclined her head and waited until he had left.

She looked back at Peredura, lying calm and passive, completely at the mercy of others. “This is not fair,” Cassandra whispered. “I… am out of my depth here. I have no experience with these matters, no idea what you are going through, what you will be going through. I do not know if it would be better to let you sleep, or allow you face it.”

She looked down at the vial in her hand. “I do not want this responsibility; I do not want to make this decision for you. But,” she looked back up, a determined set to her jaw, “There is no one else here to make this decision, so I must. And I will. I do not know if you can hear me, Peredura, or if you can comprehend what I’m saying, or even if you will remember this later. But please understand, I made this decision based only on what I know. If it was the wrong decision,” she unstoppered the vial, “If I chose poorly,” she lifted Peredura’s head, “Please forgive me.”

She poured the whole potion into Peredura’s mouth.

* * *

There was no sound, yet she knew she was screaming.

She had to be screaming herself hoarse by now, yet she couldn’t wake up. That she was dreaming she was certain, the lighting was too dark, the images blurred when more than a few feet away. And there was no pain, no physical, tangible pain, only the impression that she should feel pain because he was holding her wrists.

Pulling her hair.

Shoving his legs between hers.

She screamed, long and hard, trying to make her body outside the nightmare move, trying to wake herself up. All to no avail.

The dream changed. She found herself in an alcove, Vicici having left her alone to heal, watching the long cuts close themselves, feeling the stupor of opeigh take hold of her. Then he entered, his sweaty hands pawing at her, his face filling her vision, his weight crushing her. She waited for the opeigh to take hold, to block out what was happening, again, before she remembered that this wasn’t real, it was a dream, she needed to wake up!

NOOOOOOOOOOOO…

_…help me…_

* * *

Solas had come back to Skyhold with Cassandra. While she had made the long climb up the tower to Peredura’s chambers, he had headed straight for his bed, intending to get as much sleep as possible before relieving Cassandra later that morning. They had agreed the two of them would sit with her, watch her, help her through this in whatever way possible, even if it was only to be there for her, to let her know she was not alone.

When he woke a few hours later, he was not rested. His sleep had been filled with dreams, not the pleasant walks through the Fade he often took, but a strange and dark pulling, like someone calling to him, drawing him into a nightmare. He woke with a splitting headache and a grouchy temper to match.

Mostly because he knew he’d have to drink some of that abominable tea.

As he steeped the noxious brew, his thoughts wandered over the past several days. It was apparent to him—hindsight being so damnably clear—that the supposed yeti Leliana’s scouts reported had been, in fact, this mage in hiding, watching Skyhold, waiting for his opportunity to abduct Peredura.

Solas should have realized it sooner, when Fear and Krem had been unable to find the beast. There was no mistaking the musky scent of a yeti, so a mabari should have had no trouble tracking it. Yet Fear had never once caught wind of it. Therefore, the yeti was no yeti.

He took a sip from his cup, made a face, and took another.

It was bitter, both the tea and his failure. He had grown lax in his protection of Peredura, and had nearly allowed Corypheus to get his hands on her. He resolved to do better in the future. Though it was still a mystery to him how Peredura had survived attaining the mark, the girl had shown a surprising ability to persevere. Perhaps, somehow, she would find a way to survive what was coming.

For her sake, he would allow himself to hope so, even while he feared he knew how it would end—how it must end.

The cup at long last finished, he set it aside and pushed himself to his feet. He crossed the main hall, snatching a roll from a platter as he passed Varric’s table—the dwarf had remained with Cullen and the searchers last night—and headed for Peredura’s tower.

The climb was long, but he found it rather invigorating after his tea. He reached the top and knocked on the door before heading inside, giving Cassandra notice of his arrival. “Good morning, Seeker,” he softly chirped, his steps light as he came up on the other side of Peredura’s bed. “How is she doing?”

“Good morning, Solas,” she acknowledge, “Peredura’s sleeping. I do not think she will have as much trouble as we feared.”

“Good, good,” he sat down on the bed beside the sleeping Inquisitor. Tenderly he touched her cheek, feeling her breath brush the skin on the back of his hand, needing to confirm for himself that she was alive and on the road to recovery. “Her arms are healing?”

“They should be as good as new by this evening, according to Stitches.”

“Yes, I was going to ask about that…”

“He knows of her scars,” she answered before he could voice his concerns, “But he will not speak of it. He fears Bull’s wrath, should he say anything against ‘the Boss’.”

Solas chuckled, “I imagine Bull would be upset, and vindictive, if one of his men betrayed Peredura. Our resident qunari is quite fond of her.”

“We all are.”

He nodded, patting Peredura’s shoulder before he withdrew his hand, “Yes, we are. So,” he leaned back to look at Cassandra, “Peredura hasn’t shown any signs of withdrawal yet?”

“None. And I doubt she will. I took steps last night, on the advice of others, to give her a sleeping potion. She should remain asleep for the duration of her withdrawal, Maker willing.” Cassandra stood and stretched her back, feeling the bones pop and the muscles ache. “Speaking of sleep…”

“Yes, of course, go have some sleep yourself. I shall sit with Peredura for the rest of the day.”

“Thank you, Solas,” Cassandra inclined her head. “Will you require anything while I’m gone? Should I have the servants bring up some food for you later? A book to read? Anything?”

“No, Seeker, thank you, but I will be all right until your return. Go and get some rest.”

“Very well,” she started for the stairs. Truthfully she was relieved that Solas didn’t want anything. Though of course she would have had the servants bring him whatever he desired, she really only wanted to get to her bed and sleep. She hoped she could, that her conscious would be clear enough to allow her rest, her decision to give the sleeping potion continuing to weigh heavily on her heart. At least Solas seemed to agree with what she had done; that should help quell any anxieties.

* * *

Swarthy skin, dark, like the clothing he wore.

Long face, angular, harsh lines, cheeks covered with pockmarks.

Cruel lips, laughing at her one moment, whispering endearments the next.

Ice-blue eyes, dead, cold, like the hands that touched her, held her fast, pinched and pulled.

There was no pain, but she was being sadistically hurt.

There was no movement, but she was desperately fighting.

There was no sound, but she was endlessly screaming.

_Help me… please… someone… make it stop…_

* * *

Solas didn’t like it.

Perhaps it was the guilt he felt, over misnaming the yeti, allowing the mage to remain undetected. Perhaps it was the thought of all she had gone through, the abduction, the opeigh, falling down a ravine. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had sat there, in Peredura’s chambers, for hours with nothing to do but watch her sleep.

Something was troubling him, however. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something important that he had missed. So much was riding on her shoulders, so much more than rifts and demons and the Inquisition and even Corypheus. He didn’t want to fail her again.

“What is the matter?” he spoke suddenly into the room.

Peredura didn’t react. She made no sound, gave no twitch of muscle, that would acknowledge his presence.

“You sleep like the dead,” he commented out loud. The room was overly quiet in his opinion, the crackle of the fire doing little to fill the empty space around them, so he gave voice to his thoughts. “Due to the strength of the sleeping potion, no doubt. Must have been a very powerful one, if Seeker Cassandra believes you will be through your withdrawal before it wears off. So, you are asleep, in a very deep and peaceful sleep, and yet…”

He leaned in closer, staring intently at her face, willing her to open her eyes, to see him, to speak his name and assure him all was well. She didn’t, her expression remaining blank, her lips remaining still, her voice remaining silent. But her eyes…

“You’re not…” he loomed over her until he was inches away from her face, “You are, aren’t you?” He could see her eyes, though sealed behind heavy lids, her eyes were ceaselessly moving, the cornea pushing and distorting the skin of her eyelids. “You are dreaming.”

He received no response, no verbal answer, only the continual flickering of her hidden eyes.

“I hope, at least, it is a peaceful dream,” he sighed and leaned back, rubbing at the ache in his neck, “One in which you are strolling through a flower-strewn meadow. Or floating on a peaceful lake. I wonder,” a small, impish smile tugged at his lips, “Should I join you? Should I find you in your dream, walk with you for a time, see what secret desires live within your heart? It would give me greater understanding into exactly what type of person you are.”

Solas sighed, “But then, the dreams of most mortals are brief. Undoubtedly you would be finished with this dream, before I could join you. I suppose I shall have to grant you your privacy, Peredura. Sleep well, and pleasant dreams.”

He patted her arm, gently in case she was not yet fully healed, and stood up. Truthfully he was feeling tired again, possibly due to the long hours spent sitting and staring at someone else sleeping. He stifled a yawn and walked over to the balcony door, gazing outside through the panes of glass. However, the view of the setting sun, painting the snow-capped mountains in purples and pinks, could not distract him. He should feel comfort, knowing she was resting so peacefully, so deeply, without any distress from the opeigh. Instead he continued to feel disquiet.

She was so still, other than her eyes. Eyes that never ceased in their movements.

It hit him so suddenly, he let out a gasp of surprise. He spun around, half expecting her to sit up and agree with his conclusions. “Your dreams, Peredura. You’ve been having them all day, ever since I got here, at the very least. And not once have you stirred. Not once have you smiled in your sleep, or moaned, or tried to move. You are in too deep a sleep, are you not. Too deep to move, yet not so deep that you cannot dream dreams that never end.”

“Who are you talking to?” Cassandra’s voice floated up to him. She had opened the door and started up the last flight of stairs without having given him the fair warning of a knock.

“Peredura, of course.”

“She is awake!” Cassandra stomped up the last few steps, nearly knocking Solas to the floor in her haste to reach Peredura’s side.

“No, she remains asleep,” Solas assured her, “Though I am beginning to have my doubts.”

“What doubts?” she pressed. She had managed a few hours sleep, interspersed with hours of worry and stress. She had finally come to the conclusion that what was done, was done, and there was nothing more to do about it. Yet if Solas was having doubts…

“I’m…” he looked at her, saw the bags beneath her eyes, the heavy lines of worry on her features, and couldn’t find it in himself to add to it. “It’s probably nothing, other than I’ve been sitting here alone for too long.”

“I know the feeling,” Cassandra sighed, “But I don’t know what else to do. I do not want her to wake up alone, with no one to help her should she need it. And there are so few of us who know enough about her past, that she would be comfortable having watch over her while she was incapacitated.”

“Agreed. If you like, I could stay with the two of you, for a little while. Give you someone to talk with.”

Cassandra waved him away, taking her former perch by Peredura’s side. “I appreciate the offer, Solas, but I know you do not like conversing with me. In fact, no one likes conversing with me.”

“I find that highly unlikely. Peredura, for instance, loves to talk with you. She looks to you like an older sister, and shares her secrets first with you, then with the rest of us.”

Cassandra gave him a rare smile, appreciating his effort to lift her spirits, and tried to return the favor. “And she looks to you like the father she lost. It’s all right, Solas, go and get something to eat. Then if you wish it, you can return, but it won’t be necessary. Josephine got word that Leliana will soon be returning to Skyhold, and intends to check on Peredura herself.”

“Oh?” Solas leaned against one of the bed posts, his interest fully engaged, his curiosity almost palpable. “Is there any more news? Did she say if they were successful in tracking down the mage?”

Cassandra shook her head. “The mage got away cleanly. Leliana is on her way back with the evidence found at the cabin. Cullen will be returning later, after he finishes rounding up the last of the scouts.”

“Well, then I won’t worry about you, Seeker. It sounds as if you will soon be in good hands.” He took one last look at Peredura, staring at her restless and trapped eyes. “I might come back later, though, just to say goodnight.”

Cassandra nodded, “Do as you wish. I will stay with her through the night.”

Solas left then and made straight for his chambers. There were other places he could have gone, nearer to hand though far less private. He felt the need, however, to be alone and comfortable, before attempting to do what he was about to do.

And it wasn’t as if Peredura was going anywhere, in her dreams or out.

* * *

The darkness was suffocating. Encompassing. Moving with her as if she wasn’t moving.

She found no relief when it lifted. She looked around to see she was once more in that alcove, Vicici telling her what a good girl she had been, and handing over that vial of opeigh. She couldn’t stop herself, she couldn’t keep her hands from unstoppering the vial, she couldn’t keep herself from eagerly swallowing the syrupy liquid as if she had been dying of thirst.

Even knowing what was to come, somewhere in her mind, on some deep level, she hoped and prayed: that this time things were real and the opeigh would work and she would not know would not remember would not see him walking in…

A voice called her name. A voice so familiar, so sudden, that she opened her eyes. She was about to answer, his name was on the tip of her tongue, when she saw it was not the owner of the voice standing over her, but that mage with his dead eyes and groping hands and putrid breath.

nononononononono

Again the voice called, drawing her like a moth to the flame. She screamed, battled against the mage, but could not affect an escape.

Suddenly she rolled off the couch and landed on the floor. When she opened her eyes, the scene had changed once more. She was back in the cabin, the mage looming over her, spouting insanities from his lips. She continued to hear that one voice call her name, but with the mage weighing her down, she could only cry in frustration.

Why couldn’t she wake up?

Even knowing it would do no good, that the scene would only change again, she did what she always did at this part in the dream, as if she had no control over her actions. She grabbed the knife from the mage’s belt and stabbed him. As soon as he rolled off her she opened the door and ran…

…straight into Solas! He was there. Somehow. In her dream. He was there and calling to her and holding her and allowing her to cry, sobbing against his chest.

There were words exchanged, not anything she could hear, but she saw his lips move and knew what he meant to say. She also knew she was answering, somehow, conveying her thoughts without sound, describing the horrors she had been facing for an undeterminable time.

His form grew stronger and more distinct.

His hands cupped her face.

His blue eyes shone with warmth.

_“Wake up.”_

Nothing happened. She shook her head, feeling his hands moving with her, and tried to tell him, tried to explain, how she couldn’t wake up, couldn’t make herself move, couldn’t make herself scream, the dreams kept going on and on repeating cycling switching…

 _“Wake up!”_ he commanded, becoming even more real than before.

 _“I can’t,”_ she cried, clutching at him as if she was drowning and he a life raft. _“I’ve tried so hard, for so long, but the dreams keep going on and on…”_

“Peredura,” he was fully formed now, and stopped her babbling with that single name. She hiccoughed into silence, but refused to let go. “Peredura, open your eyes.”

“No,” she moaned, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just be right back there again, in that alcove, or the cabin, with him, touching me, those hands, those eyes.”

“Peredura,” he stroked her long brown hair, “It’s over. He can’t hurt you any more.”

“Am I… Am I awake?” She childishly kept her face pressed against his fur trimmed vest.

He had to smile, remembering Cassandra’s words, how Peredura looked to him as a father figure. In a way, she felt like a daughter to him, the daughter he would never have. She even assumed a visage more befitting to her youthful acts. “No, but you are safe from him. Who is he, by the way? Is he the mage who captured you?”

Off to the side a form shimmered, shadow taking on indistinct shape, features popping in and out of the haze randomly, never fully forming, never fully disappearing. “He… yes… please, I don’t want to talk about it, not here, not now, I just want to wake up, to make it stop, but I can’t, I’ve tried so hard for so long, but I can’t make it stop…”

The shadow dissipated beneath the force of Solas’ will. “I’ve made it stop,” he assured her. “Open your eyes and take a look.” When she continued to hold on tight, he questioned, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she sniffed.

“Then, look.”

He pulled on her shoulders, not hard enough to move her, but hard enough to encourage her on her own to let go, lean away from him, and open her eyes. Soft brown, doe-like orbs blinked once, twice, before growing wide with wonder. He watched her unblemished cheeks turn pink, her mouth drop, as she stared around them. “Where are we?”

“The more appropriate question would be, when are we. But as I cannot give an answer that would make sense to you, let’s just say we are at a place of my choosing.” He brushed a lock of her hair back behind one fully restored ear.

“This…” she made a complete circle, eyes roaming up and down as well as side-to-side, trying to take in everything at once. “Are we in the Fade?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he allowed. “All dreams come from the Fade, are in the Fade, are they not? And this is my dream. So, yes, you could say we are in the Fade.”

It was a forested scene, somewhere cool and green, with moonlight filtering through a canopy of trees. A pool lapped at its shore off to their side, and in the distance she could hear the call of some nocturnal bird. She turned back to look at Solas and smiled her thanks. “I’d guess that this place existed in ancient times, when the elves ruled Thedas.”

“You would be correct in that assumption.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the pond, making her sit down on the grass beside him. “I discovered it a long time ago. And since it is a place I carry with me in my memories, I can return to it in my dreams, whenever I am troubled and in need of a peaceful place to sit quietly with my thoughts.”

“It is very peaceful here,” she agreed, leaning over to dip her fingers into the water. “I can feel it, just like it’s really here. Like when you took me to see Haven, shortly after we reached Skyhold.”

“Yes,” he petted her hair again.

“Your dreams always seem so much more real,” she mused, wiping her fingers dry against her leggings, “Is it because you spend so much time in the Fade? You have more practice or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Tell me something else,” she grew serious, changing before his eyes, from Peredura the child to Peredura the Inquisitor, her features changing also. “Why couldn’t I wake myself? I know I’m dreaming, and I’ve been trying for what seems like months to wake myself up, but I continue to…”

The shadow shimmered once more, and once more Solas banished it without a gesture.

“In the waking world, your body was given a sleeping potion. I strong one, I believe. But that is what is keeping you from waking.”

“In the waking world,” she repeated, considering his words carefully. “Am I safe in assuming that I—we—are back in Skyhold?”

“Yes. You are safe and sound in your own bed, even.”

“My own…” her eyes widened once more. “Maker’s breath!”

Solas winced over the Andrastian curse coming from her elven features.

“Tell me, please, tell me you didn’t use the sleeping potion that was in my desk, the one in a little blue vial that looks like it should contain lyrium.”

“I… I’m not sure,” he hedged. “I wasn’t the one who gave it to you, but I believe I remember seeing such a bottle, empty, lying on the table beside your bed.”

She moaned, dropping her face into her hands. “I’m going to be trapped here for days!”

“What do you mean?”

“I had that potion made very specifically for, er, well, let’s just say I wanted it to be very strong, so if anyone took even the smallest sip, he’d, I mean, they’d be knocked out for hours. The whole bottle would put a person to sleep for two or three days.” She looked up from her hands, “Why? Why was I given a sleeping draught?”

“We didn’t mean you any harm,” he defended himself, deciding not to mention it was Cassandra’s decision. That could wait until she was awake, if she was ever told. “You had been given opeigh, and we were worried about what that would do to you, to your body, as it began to wear off. We decided that it would be better if you slept through your withdrawal, much like you did the first time, right after the Breach.”

“I remember him forcing it down my throat,” Peredura closed her eyes, and the shadow flickered, somewhere out of the corner of his eyes. This time it was her will that banished it. “Solas, how long have I been trapped here? How much longer will I be forced to remain?”

“You were given the potion early this morning, before dawn. It’s evening now, just after sunset.”

“So I have, at the bare minimum, a day and two nights to go. One quarter of the way through. If I’m lucky and it wears off quickly.” She looked back at him, and he was thankful there wasn’t any blame in her features, only a mild hopefulness. “Could I… do you think it would be possible, I mean, for me to remain here? In this part of the Fade? I know it’s your private sanctuary, where you come to think…”

“Peredura,” he easily stopped her, “If I hadn’t been willing to share this with you, I wouldn’t have brought you here. Yes, my dear child, stay. Remain here, beside this pond. I must leave you, however, for a time. I should go and tell the others what has happened. Perhaps we can devise a way to wake you up early, withdrawal or no.”

She looked like she wanted to beg him to stay, her features shifting back to when she was a child. Then she was the Inquisitor once more, stronger and braver and more cognizant of her obligations. “Yes, of course you have to go, you’re the only one who can tell them what is going on.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Stay strong, Peredura. I’ll be back; I promise. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a way to counter the effects of the potion, and the next time you see me you will be awake.”

She smiled for him. She smiled until he woke himself and disappeared. Then she let the smile slide away, wrapped her arms around her, and concentrated on the pond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who caught it, good for you!
> 
> If you didn't catch the reference, this chapter is named after a poem written by Edgar Allan Poe, who's birthday was earlier this week (January 19). As he was my 'first' (*ahem* I mean favorite author, my first favorite author) and remains a much cherished idol and source of inspiration, I thought it fitting :'D


	18. Awake

It was late. Cullen stalked up the stairs, his eyes bloodshot, his features drawn, his shoulders slumped. He had stayed out too long, he knew, pushed himself too hard—he was going to pay for it later. But even if he fell into a deep sleep, unable to wake, haunted by his memories of Kinloch and Kirkwall, it would not be enough of a punishment to suit his failure.

But it would be a start.

His current objective was another punishment. He didn’t want to see Peredura, but he knew it couldn’t be avoided. He had put it off for as long as possible, by staying out until the last of the scouts had reported back. When he finally returned to Skyhold, he had first stopped to check on Fear—who was well on his way to recovering and being a general nuisance for Blackwall and Krem. Next he had gone to talk with Josephine, who was managing things as best she could while the rest of them had been preoccupied with this latest disaster. While there, Josephine had informed him that Peredura had been given a couple of potions to help her recover and was currently resting in her chambers, and he knew she would have to be next. Not that he wanted to see Peredura and all she had suffered, the bruised cheek and cut lip, the swollen and broken arms, those unseeing staring eyes and unnatural compliance… But he had failed her, his weakness had allowed for her capture, and he would face the consequences of his actions. Therefore he set his face within a grim mask and pushed himself even more, driving himself to climb the dizzying heights of her tower.

Because he deserved the punishment.

He could hear their voices, even before he knocked on the door, raised and heated voices that were no longer listening, talking over each other in a head-splitting babble of chaotic sound. He paused a moment to lean his forehead against the wooden portal, squeezing his eyes shut and shoring up his resolve. Then he squared his shoulders, gripped the latch in his gloved hand, and strode into battle.

The scene that met him as he climbed the last flight of steps was exactly what he had expected he would find. Cassandra, Leliana, Solas and Bull were all standing around the chamber, arguing, gesturing, and generally making far too much noise. Dismissing them for the time being, his eyes hungrily took in Peredura’s form, lying still and pale beneath her blanket, and miraculously oblivious to the verbal onslaught raging around her. Though he was thankful she wasn’t upset by the commotion, he also knew this was neither the time nor the place for such a scene.

“What is going on here?” he demanded in his best Commander voice.

“Commander!” Solas sounded relieved to see him, which he took as a very bad sign indeed.

“Cullen,” Cassandra pushed past the elf. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her demeanor eager, as she groped for his side, “Thank the Maker you’re back. We could use your advise.”

“I’ve already told you what you must do,” Solas countered, tugging on her shoulder to pull her around to face him. Cullen lifted an eyebrow at this action, coming quickly to the conclusion that the elf had to be deeply upset if he resorted to pushing and shoving during an argument.

“And I’ve told you, that Stitches can make another one that’ll keep her from dreaming,” Bull growled from where he stood in front of the hearth. He looked like he wanted to join in with the pushing and shoving, but was more able to restrain his impulses. His massive arms were crossed over an even more massive chest, giving the impression of idleness; however, one foot was braced against the hearthstones, ready to launch himself across the room should the opportunity presented itself. Cullen was going to have to defuse this situation quickly.

“She doesn’t need to sleep; she needs to wake up! You should never have given her the potion in the first place…”

“Cassandra did what she thought best,” Leliana broke over Solas’ complaint, her words reasonable if the tone was not. It appeared to Cullen that she had been trying to ease tensions in the room, but for whatever reasons, she had digressed into the emotional maelstrom with the others. “For good or illl, what was done is done.”

“Then don’t compound the issue by doing more damage.”

“What harm is there, so long as she’s not dreaming?”

“There is harm being done now, and we should put a stop to that first.”

“Silence!” Cullen pierced each of them with his glare, at long last ceasing the deafening prattle, which had gotten to the point where he couldn’t tell who was saying what. When he was assured he had everyone’s attention, he very deliberately did not speak but walked through them to reach Peredura’s side. He took a moment to look at her, to see the bruising and swelling on her face and arms had been healed, to assure himself that she was recovering and would be well, though astonishingly remaining asleep. Only then did he turn back to them and demand, “What are you all arguing about? Start at the beginning,” he held up a hand as everyone had opened their mouths, “One at a time. Cassandra first.”

The Seeker nodded, squaring her shoulders as if facing the hangman’s noose while still professing her innocence. “It started after Stitches treated Peredura’s wounds,” she began. “It had been Dorian’s suggestion that she be allowed to sleep through her withdrawal.”

“Don’t try to blame this on Dorian,” Bull growled.

“He did make the suggestion,” Solas stated.

“He’s not here to defend himself. He may have had very good reasons for suggesting that course of action.”

“He could have been here, if he hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor today,” Leliana hummed.

“Do not interrupt,” Cullen warned them all. “If any of you have anything relevant to say, you will get your chance. Until then, hold your tongue. All of you.” His eyes swept the scene. When everyone looked like they would remain silent, he turned back to Cassandra. “Continue.”

“She was unable to make the decision for herself, and there was no one else here who could make it for her,” Cassandra lifted her chin, “So I made the decision. I gave her a sleeping potion, enough so that she would not awaken until most of her withdrawal was through. Based on the information I had at the time, I felt it was the best decision. I still feel it was the only decision I could have made.”

“But we have more information now,” Solas argued.

“Wait your turn,” Cullen warned, but Solas would not back down.

“I agree with Cassandra that, at the time, giving Peredura the sleeping potion was the best course of action. I never argued that point. But we know now that it is harming her.”

“Enough.” It wasn’t a command, it wasn’t shouted, it was spoken in a reasonable tone and at a reasonable volume. And it finally got Solas to snap his mouth closed. Cullen suppressed the sigh and turned back to Cassandra. “You gave her a sleeping potion. Very well. Is what Solas claims true; is it harming her?”

“We… I didn’t think so,” she answered, lifting her chin. “You should know, she was sleeping deeply, not moving or making any sign of distress. I never noticed she was dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” he repeated. “Are you trying to tell me that dreaming is hurting her?”

“If I may speak, Commander?” Solas’ voice was slightly bitter and more than slightly condescending. “I do have the most experience with dreams and the Fade, after all.”

Cullen ignored the tone and looked at Cassandra, who nodded; apparently she had said her piece. Next he looked at Solas and nodded, “Proceed.”

“The sleeping potion did work, only too well, as it turned out. Peredura is in a deep sleep, one that she cannot awaken from. Normally, I would agree that this does not pose a problem, so long as the potion wears off before the sleeper suffers from malnutrition. Also, normally, it would be more merciful to allow her to sleep through the unpleasantness of the next few days. But this situation is different. Peredura is dreaming—in fact, she is having nightmares, continual nightmares, without any reprieve. And though she knows she is dreaming, she cannot wake herself up. Even I tried to wake her, as soon as I discovered what was happening, but the potion is too strong.”

“So we give her a different sleeping potion,” Bull shrugged, “This time, one that will keep her from dreaming.”

“Can that be guaranteed?” Solas stepped boldly up into the qunari’s face. “This potion wasn’t supposed to have any ill effects, but it does. How can we be sure another won’t be just as bad, but in a different manner?”

“You said she is dreaming,” Cullen broke in before Bull could retort, wrestling back control of the conversation, “And that even you failed to wake her. How did you find this out?”

“I sat with her for most of the day today,” Solas explained. “It took me a few hours to notice it; she’s so still and silent, it was easy to miss. But she is dreaming; look closely and you can see her eyes moving, beneath the lids, even now. Usually dreams are fleeting, and pass after a few moments—even though it seems longer when you’re the one dreaming. However, her dream continued, and I quickly realized it had been going on for quite some time. I was curious what this perpetual dreaming was about, so when Cassandra came back to relieve me, I went to my chambers and joined Peredura in her dreams. They are nightmares, Commander. Two, in fact, and she is trapped between them, repeating them, incessantly, unable to escape.” This time he stepped into Cullen’s personal space, gripping his arms with his fierceness to explain. “Imagine what she is going through. Trapped in dreams so real, so terrifying, repeating them over and over. Time flows differently in the Fade, so even though she’s been dreaming for only a day, from her perspective it’s already been an eternity of torment. We cannot leave her in the Fade like this. We must wake her up. We must find a way to counteract the potion, not compound the problem by giving her more.”

Cullen had felt a cold sweat break out during Solas’ description of what Peredura was facing. He could well imagine it, seeing as he faced visions and nightmares nearly every day, and on occasion several times a day or throughout the night. But he could always wake himself up. He could always find a way to distract himself, to confirm what was real and what was vision. Peredura was trapped, helpless, her torture nonstop.

“Bull,” he turned to the qunari next, rubbing at his brow and making Solas drop his hands, “Can you guarantee another potion won’t do the same to her, or something worse we haven’t anticipated?”

“Commander, are you unwell?” Leliana asked, touching his shoulder.

“It’s just a headache,” he waved her off, bringing his hand down. Now that the others were no longer caught up in their argument, everyone finally noticed how pale he looked. He did his best to ignore their stares, their concerned gestures. He didn’t deserve their sympathy. “Well?”

“Ah, sure, I think so,” Bull shrugged and spoke in a milder tone, making Cullen think Bull was being overly considerate of his headache, “I have a lot of faith in Stitches. I’m sure he could come up with a potion that would allow her to sleep through her withdrawal, without any dreams.”

“But could there be other side effects?” Cullen pressed. “It’s been said the first potion was strong. What would happen if we gave her another potion, before waiting for the first to wear off?”

Bull wanted to answer with something positive and sure, but he had to admit, “I don’t know.”

Cullen didn’t press the issue, but let his silence speak for itself. He turned away from them all, returning to Peredura’s side. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see it, the way her eyes shifted beneath the lids, ceaseless, restless, yet she gave no sign of discomfort or trouble. He leaned against the bedpost, staring down at her face, his gloved fingers stroking at his stubble. Her body was already experiencing the first signs of the opeigh wearing off, her skin looking cold and clammy and gray. Next there would be sweating, followed by violent stomach cramps and deep muscle aches. It was something he could not bear to see her suffer, but her tortuous nightmares were far worse than any passing, physical discomfort that was in store for her.

“We will wake her up. If, after she’s awake, she feels she would prefer to sleep through her withdrawal, then we will give her another potion. But we will allow her to make the decision. Now,” he turned back to face the others, “Does anyone know of a way to counteract the current potion?”

“I should think a stamina draught would work. Something invigorating, perhaps?” Leliana suggested.

“I could brew her some tea,” Solas offered. Cullen lifted an eyebrow at his mild suggestion, so he elaborated. “I use it myself, quite often, when I find I’m having trouble shaking off the lingering effects of a night spent walking in the Fade. It is rather bitter, unfortunately, but I do feel invigorated after taking it.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind the taste,” Cullen allowed, “So long as it wakes her up out of her nightmares. Anyone else have any suggestions? No? Then let’s get to work. Bull, talk with Stitches, find out if he can brew a sleeping potion that blocks dreams. If he can, then Peredura will have that option after she wakes. Solas, go and get that tea. We’ll brew it here, in her room, if you don’t mind.”

“I do not,” he agreed. Just as he was about to turn away to follow Bull and Leliana down the stairs, Cullen stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“One more thing,” Cullen dropped his voice, not wanting the others to hear. “Would you return to the Fade, to Peredura’s dreams? Let her know what we’re doing, that we’re trying to help her. And…” he had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could continue, “If you could, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble or put you in any danger, don’t leave her alone. In there. Stay with her until we can wake her.”

“That is something I already plan on doing, Commander,” Solas assured him, “After I bring the tea.”

Cullen nodded his thanks, words escaping him for the moment. He waited until Solas left before he turned back to the bed. He nearly jumped out of his skin to see Cassandra standing there, staring at him. He had forgotten about her, thinking for some reason she would have left with Leliana.

“Commander, if I might have a word.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, wishing the damned headache would go away. “Actually, I wanted a word with you as well,” he headed her off, fearing she would bring up something about his obvious fatigue. “How did this whole argument start? It sounded to me as if you all were mostly in agreement.”

Cassandra shook her head, guiltily glancing away. “I do not know, exactly. Leliana had come here to let me know the search for the mage had been called off, and what was discovered in the cabin. Shortly after that, Solas came into the room with Bull. They were already arguing about something else, I think it was the sleeping potion. Leliana and I tried to calm them down, but in doing so, I suppose…” her words faded into a heavy sigh when she realized she could no longer evade her responsibility. The next moment, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, “Rather than saying something diplomatic, I let my frustrations and temper get away from me, and I spoke harshly. It quickly went downhill from there. We were all tired and stressed and worried about Peredura, but that is no excuse.”

Cullen made a sort of disapproving sound, but let her off the hook. “At least our soldiers didn’t witness such behavior from their leaders. And we were able to reach a consensus.” Again he rubbed at his head, this time his brow, under the misguided impression that one could physically massage away a headache.

“Cullen, if I may ask after a… delicate matter.” His eyes narrowed, thinking she was going to bring up his ailing condition. She surprised him, however, instead picking up the vial from the bedside table and holding it out for him. Even knowing what it was, what it had held, what he had led himself to believe had been in it, his hand cupped the vial of its own accord. “This was the sleeping potion I gave her. Stitches remembered making it for Peredura, and her strange request to make it look like a vial of lyrium…”

“Say no more, Seeker,” his voice was dark, effectively damming her words. He let out a heavy breath, feeling old and tired and more like he was a few months away from turning eighty rather than thirty. He ignored her curiosity for the time being and walked over to one of the balcony doors. How he wished he could open it and feel the air moving against his skin. But they had to deal with Peredura’s troubles right then, not his own, and she would need the warmth from the fire more than the movement of the breeze. Just as she had made sacrifices for him during his recovery, he would make sacrifices for her.

And, apparently, that included confessing to Cassandra exactly where he had spent his recovery. “As you already know,” he began again, not daring to turn around, “After Haven, upon reaching Skyhold, I completely stopped taking lyrium. I found it rather harder than anticipated. After you and I had our… conversation, Peredura tracked me down in my office. She knew, Cassandra—she could describe it so perfectly—what I was going through. She also claimed she could help me. And I,” he took another deep breath and finally faced Cassandra, “I chose to believe her. Yes, I was here, in this chamber, for those first few days. And, yes, she had that potion made for me. It was her safeguard—my safeguard. If I should have failed, if I should have given in to my addiction and taken lyrium, she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t get far, that no one else would learn of my lack of success. That’s why there was a sleeping potion in a lyrium vial.”

“She… tricked you?”

“Not exactly,” he grudgingly admitted. “Whenever I asked what was in that vial, she truthfully told me it was a sleeping draught.”

Cassandra wanted to laugh for some stupid reason. The idea, the concept, was so preposterous… Peredura helping Cullen through his withdrawal… hiding him in her chambers for days… no one having an inkling of an idea… But it was plausible. Peredura had claimed to be sick herself during that time, refusing to allow anyone—not even servants—into her rooms. And Cullen had disappeared so quickly on his mysterious mission, without a word to anyone else…

A thought burst into her head with such brilliance, she felt it had to be Maker-inspired. “Cullen,” she walked up to him, taking hold of his arm in her eagerness to convince him, “Cullen, would YOU stay with Peredura, watch her while she recovers? Would YOU help her through this?”

“What?” he blinked at her, leaning back but unable to dislodge her hand. He imagined himself opening that balcony door and jumping over the railing just to get away; surely she’d let go of him then.

Cassandra sensed his weakness and pressed her suit. “She needs someone here, someone who understands her plight, someone who can make considered and well informed decisions on her behalf—should the need for such a decision arise and she is unable to do so for herself. I cannot. That has already been made apparent.”

“Despite the reversal of his feelings, even Solas agreed you made the best decision you could at the time…”

“But I do not understand addiction. I have no empathy for what the next several days will be like for her. You do. She needs you, Cullen. Stay here and take care of her, help her through this, please.” Cassandra let go of his arm and tilted her head a little, setting the hook, “Think of it as paying her back, for having done the same for you.”

Cullen swallowed thickly. One hand raked through his hair again, wanting to pull the curls out by their roots, while the other tightened around the empty vial. Damn, he hated feeling trapped. Yet Cassandra was correct in assuming he knew what it was like, fighting off addiction. Though Peredura would have no access to opeigh, not like he had to lyrium, she would still suffer the cravings and the sickness.

He had failed her already, so many times these past few days. Perhaps, this was the Maker’s way of allowing him to make for it, at least in part, by helping her through her withdrawal, as she had done for him. He let out a heavy breath and nodded, “All right.”

Cassandra inclined her head. “Thank you, Cullen. I’ll inform the others of this decision, without mentioning Peredura’s part in your recovery, of course. That is between the two of you.”

“I—we appreciate it,” he answered dryly. He was beginning to wonder if there could ever be secrets kept within Skyhold. “While you’re at it, let my captains know to report to me here, instead of my tower. For the next few days, at least. I might as well get some work done, while I’m here.”

“Of course, Cullen. And,” she smiled for him, made even more sincere due to its rarity, “Thank you. Again. Goodnight.”

He inclined his head. “Goodnight, Cassandra.”

He watched her turn away, her ebony hair with its braided crown declining down the stairs to disappear. After hearing the door open and close, he walked over to set the vial on the desk. Then he began to take off his armor, thinking to make himself a little more comfortable, subconsciously mimicking his actions of a month ago. When he realized what he was doing, he let out a sharp huff, almost as if he was laughing at himself, but continued nonetheless.

He kept his boots on this time. He also kept on his leather jacket, not wanting to reveal the sweat-soaked tunic beneath. In hindsight, he probably should have taken the time to freshen up before finding himself essentially trapped in Peredura’s chambers once more, but there was no way he could have anticipated tonight turning out this way.

Finished making himself at home, he walked back to the bed to check on Peredura. She was unchanged, however, pale and sweaty and unnervingly silent beneath the covers. There was nothing he could do for her at the moment, and he decidedly chose not to spend his time holding a one-sided conversation with a sleeping person. His fingers once more raking his hair, upsetting the curls, he turned away to wait for Solas.

Essentially alone with nothing to do, he was no longer able to fend off the demons haunting him. Cullen stood before the balcony doors, losing himself in the darkness within his mind as his vision sank into the darkening shadows of the night. The guilt he wallowed in was overwhelming. He was to blame for Peredura’s current predicament. If he hadn’t suggested they go riding in a nonsecure area…

If he hadn’t sent her guards away…

If he hadn’t stopped taking lyrium…

“Cullen?” Solas’ compassionate voice sounded suddenly at his side, pulling him from his brown study.

“Yes, Solas, you have the tea?” he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pinching them with his fingers, trying to fight off the drowsiness and headache and apparent lack of concentration that allowed the elf to sneak up on him.

Solas pretended not to see Cullen’s bloodshot eyes when he dropped his hand, just as he pretended he had not been talking to the Commander for nearly a full minute before realizing he wasn’t being heard. Despite his expertise in the area, exactly how a man could sleep standing up with his eyes open was a mystery to him—but it was a mystery he allowed Cullen to own wholly by himself. “I have it here, in this bag. I also brought my kettle and a spare cup.”

“Good, good,” he nodded, waving for him to continue.

“Use three spoonfuls per kettle,” Solas set the items on the small table beside the couch and began dosing out the correct amount for the first batch of tea. “Heat the water until it is just beneath the boiling point before adding it to the kettle. Let it steep for at least five minutes to reach its full potency.”

“Three spoonfuls, five minutes,” Cullen committed the instructions to memory. “Anything else?”

Solas turned back to him. “I should think no more than two pots would be enough to wake her, but I do not know for sure. Use caution if more is required. The tea can have, shall we say, stressful side-effects on one’s heart.”

Cullen barely suppressed the urge to growl, managing to keep his tone just on the right side of civil. “Do you mean, the tea could do just as much harm as another sleeping potion?”

“Not at all,” he defended himself, “Only that one should use moderation. Even too much of a good thing can be hazardous.”

He took a slow breath, calming himself further, before answering. “Very well.”

“I, er, don’t mean to pry,” Solas began, doing exactly that, “But I take it you are to sit with Peredura, and not Seeker Cassandra.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up further, the curls fully free now of any control, the smallest of them frizzing at his temples and around the back of his neck. “Yes. The Seeker no longer considers herself the best person suited for making decisions on Peredura’s behalf.”

“Ah, I suppose that could be my fault,” the elf managed to drop his gaze while standing a little straighter. “Perhaps I owe the Seeker an apology. I did come off a bit too strong this evening…”

“It wasn’t that,” Cullen waved him off. “Cassandra knows everyone’s tempers were too hot tonight, hers included. No, she asked me to stay with Peredura because… er…” he caught himself on the verge of revealing to Solas a bit too much. He finished lamely, “Let’s just say, I have the best perspective on what she will be facing.”

“You mean, her withdrawal from the opeigh,” Solas rightly guessed and pressed further. “So the rumors are true. You no longer require lyrium.”

“Depends upon your definition of ‘require’,” he quietly groused. “But, yes, I no longer take lyrium.”

The pot of water beside the hearth began to steam fiercely, threatening to boil. Cullen picked it up by the handle and walked over to the table to begin steeping the tea.

“Commander…” Solas began, but he didn't have the words. He watched him pour the steaming water carefully into the kettle, his hand steady despite his obvious fatigue. “Cullen,” he tried again, but there was nothing he could say. He had no frame of reference to understand the man’s struggles, or the ones Peredura would soon be facing.

“Yes,” Cullen prompted when he remained silent for too long.

Solas shook his head, telling himself he should be grateful there was someone like Cullen willing to stay with Peredura when she needed him so badly. He wouldn’t pester the man any longer. “Remember, steep it for five minutes. And give it to her slowly, a sip at a time. It should be reflex for her to swallow it, but we wouldn’t want to accidentally drown her, would we.”

“I’ll be careful,” he vowed. If he realized Solas had been making a small joke, he gave no sign.

“Then I shall leave her in your very capable hands, and return to my quarters to sleep. I’ll let Peredura know you are trying to wake her, and keep her company in the Fade until you succeed.”

Cullen didn’t answer, other than a sober nod.

* * *

He was standing at the balcony doors once more. It was a trick he had learned, years ago, the first time he had crossed the Waking Sea onboard a ship. The cabins below had been too small, the air too stale, for him to get any peaceful rest. He much preferred standing on deck, the wind moving against him easing his anxieties, the rocking of the ship beneath him lulling him to sleep. He didn’t find it at all difficult to sleep while standing, or stand while sleeping, depending on how one looked at it. Either way, it worked for him, allowing him to rest his body and mind, especially when he might only have a moment or two for that rest. More importantly, it was too light a sleep to allow for dreaming.

He was in this semi-somnolence state early the next morning, listening for the steaming of the third pot of water, when a much different sound reached his ears.

It was a soft moan, a half-formed word, faint and indistinct, in a feminine voice he had been longing to hear. He allowed himself a brief moment to send a prayer of thanksgiving to the Maker, before turning around quickly to face the bed. He half-expected Peredura to be staring at him, smiling possibly, frowning most likely, but awake with rosy cheeks and arms reaching for him. He wouldn’t care if she wanted to hug him or hit him—she could even yell Tevene profanities at him—just as long as she was awake. Expectantly his eyes sought her form, propped up on the pillows as he had left her. Yet she wasn’t awake, her body still, her eyes closed, her breathing normal.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing deeply, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment. He was tired, and stressed, and guilt ridden; he simply must have imagined the sound. The next moment, the water began to steam, and he set aside his despondency to begin steeping the third kettle of tea. He knew Solas had advised only two pots, but Peredura remained asleep, and he desperately needed to see her awake, to see her soft brown eyes focus on his, to hear his name on her breath, to feel her arms entwine around his chest. He finished pouring the water into the kettle and sat down on the couch to wait for it to steep, scrubbing at his face with his hand, absently noting the stubble on his cheeks was getting out of control. He would go back to his tower, he promised himself, and freshen up, find a clean set of clothing, maybe catch a few hours sleep in his own bed—just as soon as Peredura woke up.

Again, as if summoned by his colossal exhaustion and desperate imagination, he thought he heard her call out to him. He froze, straining his ears, fighting for focus, not daring to look lest he be disappointed once more. He needed confirmation, assurance, before he would lower his hand, before he would lift his eyes, before he would let himself believe…

The sheets rustled. The bed creaked. Something heavy hit the mattress. A whimper floated across the room to assault his ears.

Cullen’s neck nearly snapped as he jerked his head up. Peredura was moving, her arms out of the covers and weakly flailing, flopping, groping, or merely trying to stay moving—as if she had to physically force herself into wakefulness. Her eyes were closed at first, but as he watched she gave several slow blinks, fighting to keep them open. Her chapped lips parted and that heartfelt plea sounded once more, tongue thick and sluggish, voice breathy.

“…Cullen…”

“I’m here, Pere,” he answered, taking one of her struggling hands and holding it fast, not realizing when he had reached the bed. “I’m here. You are awake.” He stroked sweat-matted hair back from her face, telling himself it was just to move the strands out of her eyes, and not from any deep-seated need to touch her.

She moaned again, this time sounding more like a muted and slurred scream or shout, before she half-pushed, half-pulled herself closer towards him. He couldn’t help himself, indulging in the feel of her being near, wrapping his arms around her, holding her against his chest. He let her hear the beating of his heart in her ear, while he stroked the lank and sweat-snarled tresses falling down her back.

“It’s all right,” he cooed to her. “You’re awake now. No more nightmares.”

“Cullen?”

“Yes, Pere, it’s me,” he answered again. He suspected it might take a few moments for her to fully shake off the sleep-inducing effects of the potion, so he remained steady and patient, letting her progress at her own pace.

Peredura, however, seemed to feel the need to push herself. She shoved backwards partially out of his embrace, making a few more strangled and slurred words as she tried to get her mouth to work. When she was back far enough to see his face, she made a small moue of frustration but managed to speak, “We… we need… to talk.”

“It can wait until you’re more awake. Would you like some tea? I was just brewing…”

Her shaking head silenced his offer, her face screwed up into an expression somewhere between exhaustion and pain. “No,” she mumbled, paused to swallow, and tried again. “This can’t wait. I have to talk with you…” Her eyes almost rolled up into the back of her head, but she jerked her head forward and blinked, keeping herself awake.

“Pere?”

“I’ve… been talking with Solas,” she swallowed, testing the abilities of her tongue, forcing the words out, “In the Fade. We’ve had a lot… a lot of… time for talking.”

“I imagine so,” Cullen agreed. He held on to her arms, not wanting to let go, and neither did she, holding his arms just as fiercely.

“He’s going to…” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “He’s going to talk… with the others… but I… wanted to tell you… the mage… he is Venatori…”

“We surmised as much,” he admitted darkly, again feeling his failure cut him to the quick.

She nodded, a little too far, and her forehead thumped against his chest. He body was weak from the potion and the pain and the lack of food, but she was determined to keep speaking. She lifted her face and continued, “Solas told me… everything… that Fear got hurt… but he’s recovering… Cassandra giving me the potion… the theories on who abducted me and how… how he got away… I told him everything I knew… he’ll tell the others, but… you…” Her voice faltered beneath one final wave of sleepiness before she could fight it off.

“Hush, Pere,” he breathed, kissing her brow, “Let Solas fill me in whenever he’s able. You’re going to have enough difficulties as it is; don’t try to push yourself so hard. ”

“You did…”

“I did what?” he asked, confused by her cryptic response. “What did I do?”

“You pushed… Solas told me… how he found you… staring into space… didn’t hear him at first… I know you, Cullen… I know… You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” She finally managed a full sentence, shaking off the last of the sleeping potion. The same moment she had a feeling like a wave of ants were crawling all over her body, but she ignored it. She also ignored the clammy way her damp tunic clung to her skin, the trembling in her limbs that wasn’t from the cold, the bone deep ache that threatened to sap what meager strength she had scraped together.

He was unaware of her inner turmoil. Instead he was reminded of his own turmoil, hearing the reprimand in her voice and knowing he couldn’t deny the fact that she was right. But he could defend himself. “I was responsible, Peredura. It was because of me that you were abducted.”

Again she started shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “Are you a mage?” she asked him. Before he could answer, she continued, drowning any response he could give, drowning the sickness of her withdrawal. She had to set Cullen straight, before her body gave out on her. “Are you a Venatori? Have you been planning my abduction for weeks, possibly getting advice from Corypheus himself? Did you travel to Tevinter for opeigh? Or force it down my throat? Did you startle my horse with a lightning spell? Or use an invisibility spell to…”

“I should have been more prepared!” he had to shout to be heard over her endless questions, his shame overturning his concern, his anger at himself boiling across his features. His hands tightening their grips on her shoulders, and he suffered a nearly impossible to resist urge to shake some sense into her. Instead he shoved her against the pillows, holding her still before the onslaught of his words. “I should never have taken you to that valley, where we knew there was something suspicious lurking about. I should never have sent your guards off, putting them too far away to protect you. I should never… I should never have stopped taking lyrium. I could have sensed the mage, discovered him before he hurt you. I could have blocked his spells, if only I were still a templar!”

“If you were still a templar,” she countered, her eyes bright with tears, her voice breathy with emotion, “If you were still taking lyrium, I doubt we would have gone riding that day.”

“All the better!” he spoke without thinking.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones. The only reason they had gone riding together, was because they were experiencing these strange new, timid feelings towards each other, and the riding lesson had given them an opportunity to explore these feelings. If he were still taking lyrium, if he were still a templar, he would still be in denial of these feelings, and they would not have spent any time together. That was what she had meant, by her words. And he had vehemently stated that would be best. Immediately his heat and anger evaporated before the sight of the hurt and moisture in her eyes.

“No, wait, I didn’t mean…” But it was too late, the words were spoken, the tears were slipping past her lashes. He couldn’t look at her any more, couldn't see the pain he’d caused her, and dropped his gaze with his hands. “Forgive me…”

She didn’t speak right away, but when she did, there were layers and depths of understanding in her voice. “Cullen.” One simple word, his name, held so much meaning, so much forgiveness, so much tenderness. Her hand lifted to cup his face, gently stroking his stubbled cheek, turning him back towards her. “It wasn’t your fault. Or mine. Or anyone else’s but that Venatori mage.” She shifted her fingers, encouraging him to lift his head and look at her, ignoring the deep and aching protest of her trembling muscles. She was running out of time, she knew it, but she had to set Cullen straight first. Then she’d allow herself to be sick.

“Pere,” he sighed, putting his hand over hers, holding her gaze though it tore him apart, “I can’t help the guilt I feel. I made a mistake, not in having feelings for you, but in letting those feelings cloud my judgment. I shouldn’t have put you in danger as I did.”

“No,” she denied, trying to smile through watery eyes, “The only mistake made, we made together. Both of us thought, for one afternoon, that we were two ordinary people. That we could go off by ourselves, dare to hold each other’s hand, steal a kiss when no one was looking.”

He gave a masculine huff; put like that, their actions the other day sounded foolish and romantic. “But we’re not two ordinary people, are we?” he sighed, deflated, feeling resigned, feeling that he would have to give her up after all.

“No,” she shook her head, sending her vision spinning for a moment. She squeezed her eyes shut against the unpleasant sensation, the excessive tearing causing rivulets to run down her cheeks. She knew it was part of her withdrawal, that she wasn’t this sad, but Maker what would Cullen be thinking? She must look a shambles! “No, we’re not, but…” her words died beneath a sound of frustration and disgust. She couldn’t continue, having to take the time to scrub at her face, to wipe away the mess with her sleeves.

Cullen watched her face change, watched her eyes shut against the pain, watched the tears fall down her cheeks and mingle with the sweat, watched her hands shake as she struggled to control her weeping. And he knew how she felt, because he felt it, too. The feeling was hurt—hurt over the thought of letting go, hurt over losing something special and enjoyable and longed for and… necessary. Being together might be dangerous for her, but being apart would be far more painful. For both of them. Suddenly something inside him snapped—something that made him straighten his back, harden his resolve, and fight for the fledgling emotion they shared. “But we can still be together,” he finished her sentence, thinking it through while he talked, “We can still… explore… whatever this is between us. We simply have to be a little smarter about it.” He smirked, a small gesture but a warm one, hoping it would help her tears to stop. Hazel eyes twinkling with boyish mischief, he stared into her soft brown eyes, daring himself to say, “Think of it as a challenge, finding an excuse to bump shoulders, or share a whispered endearment, or take the other’s hand,” he pulled one hand away from her face in emphasis.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” she batted her eyes, sending another pair of streams down her cheeks, and weakly clasped his hands with hers. Blessed Andraste, she was tired, not mentally but physically weak and drained—but at least she seemed to have gotten through to him. She could finally let herself relax, let the pillows support her weight, and simply enjoy his presence.

“And the first challenge will be getting you freshened up a bit,” he commented dryly, feeling the sweat and moisture on her hands. He patted them before letting go, hoping she wouldn’t think he was pulling away because she was a mess. “I, er, used to have a handkerchief stowed away for just such emergencies…” he started looking around the room for something to use.

She sniffed, blinking away even more tears, before she could find her voice. “Over there,” she brought one hand back up to her face to help stem the overflow while the other pointed to the little table beside her bed, “Top drawer.”

Cullen looked where she had indicated and suppressed the sigh. Of course it had to be on the opposite side of the bed. He got up, walked around the foot of the bed and up the other side, feeling her eyes on him the whole time. “Do you, er, feel better yet? About us? I mean, well enough to stop crying? Maker, that sounded callous,” he added the last bit as an aside.

She laughed, brief and breathy, but genuine. She thought about explaining it to him, that it was her withdrawal making her teary-eyed—Maker only knows how many times Vicici had put her through this, had let too much time pass before giving her more opeigh. It wasn’t something she wanted to talk about, but if Cullen was going to be here for even a part of the next few days, he should know what to expect. All thought of explanation fled her mind, however, upon watching him open the top drawer.

Cullen froze, one hand still on the knob, the other poised over the contents. He stared at what was inside, and indiscernible expression on his face. “I… I don’t believe it… I thought I’d never… How did you…”

She shuddered, a strange and unpleasant sensation swept over her, as if thousands and thousands of tiny bugs were crawling across her skin, their millions of legs moving and touching and creeping… “What is it?” she asked, perhaps a little too loudly, trying to drown out the feeling with the sound of her voice.

Cullen didn’t notice her actions, too caught up in what he discovered. He did hear her, however distantly, and dipped his hand inside to scoop out one pristine, folded, embroidered handkerchief. Impulsively he brought it to his face, taking one selfish moment to confirm the scent of lilacs on the soft fabric. “My handkerchief, one of the ones my sister, Mia, embroidered for me. I thought I lost them all when Haven fell. How did you find it? Was it when you returned to Haven to salvage the wreckage?”

He turned to face her fully, and she loved the expression on his face, boyish and delighted and, well, happy. She smiled a little, she couldn’t help herself, and shook her head. “Earlier that day. Before I closed the Breach. We were talking… about the blood on my dagger…”

“I remember,” he quickly agreed, seeing as she was reluctant to talk about those memories of that dark future—a future they were still trying to avoid. He sat down on the bed beside her and began wiping her face. “I never realized you had kept it this whole time.”

“I, er,” she hedged, glancing off to the side while he dried her tears, “I wanted to clean it, again, before returning it to you, only there wasn’t ever any time, we were so busy with the celebration, then Corypheus attacked, then coming to Skyhold… Please stop that!”

“What?” he ceased his movements, holding the handkerchief so that it brushed lightly against her cheek. He saw her flinch away from the touch and grew more concerned. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you somehow?”

“My skin!” she panted. “There are… it feels like… everywhere…” she started brushing at her arms and shoulders, like she was trying to swipe something away. Cullen had to pull back when she started swatting at her sides and legs.

“Pere?” he called, but she didn’t seem to hear him, focused on whatever mysterious unseen hazard was attacking her. “Pere?” he tried again, touching her shoulder. She swatted his hand away before going back to her slapping and rubbing and whimpering.

When she escalated to scratching, using her nails to claw and scrape at her skin, he decided things had gone too far. “Pere!” he shouted, trying to gain her attention. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands back where she couldn’t harm herself. “Pere? What is it? What’s wrong? Tell me, please, I want to help you.”

She fought him, or tried to, but was too weak. After a few pathetic twists and a half-formed yell she sagged into his arms, yet continued to writhe slowly like an uncoiling snake. “My skin… they’re crawling… all over… millions of spiders… can’t see them… Make them stop!”

Cullen understood. Though he’d had that feeling before—that sensation of something crawling over his skin, the hairs wanting to stand on end, every brush of touch or breath of air intensified a thousandfold—it had never been to the degree that she was experiencing. Carefully he shifted her in his grasp, making sure her arms were pinned so she couldn’t harm herself, and pulled her onto his lap. Then he began rocking her, gently, his arms around her like a barrier, blocking out whatever else was touching her.

“There’s only me,” his voice was a low growl, like the gentle purr of a lion. “Nothing else is touching you. Only me. Listen to my voice, Pere, hear what I’m saying. There is nothing crawling on you. You’re safe. I’m here. I’ll keep everything else at bay. I promise.”

Slowly she came back to herself, the itching easing, banished before the onslaught of his voice, his words, his presence, his care and understanding. She gave one final shudder before relaxing against his chest. She ducked her head beneath his chin, placed her ear over his heart, and listened to the slow and steady thump.

“Better?” he asked, softly, pressing his lips onto the top of her head.

She gave a sound, something like the mewl of a newborn kitten.

“Let’s get you a little more comfortable, shall we?”

She thought she was very comfortable indeed exactly where she was thank-you-very-much, but she didn’t protest when he eased her around to lie back against the pillows once more.

“You should get some rest,” he tucked the blanket around her.

“I don’ wanna sleep anymore,” she slurred, a tiny furrow forming between her eyebrows.

He kissed it away. “You don’t have to sleep, but try to relax. Don’t move around so much. Let your body rest. Save your strength for what’s to come.” He saw her expression darken and amended, “I shouldn’t have said that last part, about things getting worse, I mean, um, they’re not going to get worse, you’re going to get better, er…”

“I know what you meant,” she sighed, trying to give him a smile.

He gave her one in return before he leaned back, tilting his head as if he was listening to something. The next moment he began to push himself off of the mattress.

“Cullen,” she grabbed for him, fearing that he was leaving her. “Don’t go…”

“It’ll be all right, Pere,” he patted her hand, removing it from his arm. “I won’t be far. But I should answer the door.”

“What door?”

He looked at her askance. “Your bedroom door. Didn’t you hear the knock?”

“Knock?” she repeated, weakly shaking her head.

“It’s probably breakfast. If I’m lucky, there’ll be a report or two for me with it. Wouldn’t want to fall behind in my work.” He saw the furrow return, and figured she was too far into her withdrawal to fully understand what was going on. “Just lie still; I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, yawned, but didn’t close her eyes. He decided it was enough that she was quiet, and left her side to descend the stairs. He reached for the latch before he saw he was still holding the handkerchief. He quickly tucked the soiled cloth away and opened the door. Two people were there, one of whom was dressed in the uniform of a soldier. Behind him stood an elven servant with a large tray of food.

“Ser!” the soldier smartly saluted.

“Yes?” Cullen absently acknowledged the salute. “Oh, here, I’ll take that,” he reached for the tray, his nostrils flaring as he was assailed with the savory smells of cooked eggs and ham and fresh baked bread. His stomach made a rather rude sound of anticipation, which all of them pointedly ignored. “Smells delightful, but could you also send up something milder? Broth, perhaps? For the Inquisitor. I’m not sure she’s feeling well enough to tackle solid food quite yet.”

“There’s some on the tray already, ser,” the servant nodded, “Next to the eggs. Solas suggested it.”

“Ah, excellent. Solas always seems to be two steps ahead of the rest of us.”

“As you say, ser,” the servant bowed and left.

The soldier remained, however. He simply stood there, staring at the Commander holding a tray of food. Cullen returned the stare, gesturing with the tray as he prompted, “Was there something else, soldier? Or were you escorting our breakfast this morning?”

“Oh! Er, I was told to, um, report to you, this morning.”

“That’s right,” he nodded to the soldier.

“I mean, here, in the Inquisitor’s chambers.”

Cullen shifted slightly, straightening his back and raising an intimidating eyebrow. “And…?”

The man had the decency to blush. “Right. Reporting.” He snapped another salute. “Ser! Here are last night’s reports, as well as the ones that have come in so far this morning.” He held out a stack of clipboards six inches high.

“Wait here for just a moment,” Cullen eyed the stack and the tray and knew he couldn’t carry both. Neither did he want the soldier following him up where he would see Peredura; he had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate that! Cullen quickly trotted up the steps, attempted to set the tray on the table but found it occupied with the tea kettle, set the tray down on the couch instead, glanced at Peredura to make sure she was lying peacefully, and finally headed back down to the soldier as lightly as he could step. “All right, give them here. Anything else?”

“No, ser,” he swallowed and shook his head. “Er, do you have any responses?”

“Not until after I’ve read them,” Cullen answered mildly.

“Right. Of course, ser. Sorry, ser. I’ll just, er, come back after lunch.” He cleared his throat, snapped yet another salute, and spun on his heel to escape down the stairs.

Cullen stood there for a moment and mused over the soldier’s strange behavior, but nothing occurred to him to explain the nervous reaction. Not until he ascended the stairs and walked over to Peredura’s desk to drop off the reports. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the balcony doors and paused in horror to stare. No wonder the soldier was stunned.

“Is something wrong?” Peredura’s voice called out from the bed, noticing his hesitation.

Yes, Cullen thought to himself. Here he was, the Commander of the Inquisition Forces, standing in the Inquisitor’s bedchambers, answering her door at an unreasonably early hour, and in a fairly—shall we say—informal state of dress. Maker, it would be far too easy to think he had spent the night with Peredura, which he had, but not that way. Surely Solas and Cassandra kept themselves more presentable during their vigils. “No, er, I was setting these reports down over here, thought I’d commandeer your desk if you don't mind, and, um, something caught my eye. No worries. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Feeling his cheeks burning, he tucked in his tunic, straightened his jacket, and tried to flatten the unruly curls of his hair.


	19. Consequences

Bull stood with one leg cocked against the wall, his brow deeply furrowed, his arms crossed, and a frown etched into his stone-like face, staring down at the lump on his bed. Not that it wasn't a shapely lump, long and lean in the right places, firm and rippled in others, and that ass—quite a tempting sight, he admitted with only a little reluctance. Nor was it the fact that the 'lump' had obviously been upset about something yesterday, to the point where the man had himself in a drunken stupor shortly after noon. No, it wasn't any of these trivial matters that was bothering Bull.

It was the fact that he had had to spend the night sleeping in a chair.

Slowly he twisted and stretched his neck, trying to work the knots out before they migrated up his skull and gave him a headache. Most qunari had horns that stayed close to their skulls, making it easy to sleep. But Bull's horns stretched out to either side, impressive to look at and as broad as his shoulders, fear-inspiring in battle while dripping with gore, but a bitch to sleep with if he didn't have enough support to help take up their weight. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and pushed himself off the wall to approach the bed.

"Time to get up, Twinkle-Toes," he gently shook a shoulder poking out from beneath the sheets.

There was an answering mumble, which he took as an encouraging sign, though the words spoken in Tevene made him smile.

"I'm not your mother," he sighed, shaking the shoulder a little more roughly, "And I don't care if the other boys make fun of you. You need to get up. Now."

"Five more minutes…"

"Rise and shine, mage-boy," he changed tactics, giving the shapely rump a smart slap.

It worked. Dorian twisted his torso, pushing himself up onto an elbow, staring around wildly while his free hand began to glow with magic. "What? Who?" he blinked, trying to bring something into focus. It was Bull's massive face that was the first thing he saw. He gave a most unladylike squeak while scooting backwards on the bed. "You! What are you doing in my chambers?" He clutched the sheet to his naked chest, covering his nipples, and cast about for anything that might help him, anything he might use as a weapon or shield. The next moment, all his drinking from the previous day caught up with him, and the magic dissipated as he clutched at his skull. "Argh, my head! You've… you've poisoned me! Help! Help! I've been poiso…!"

Bull covered half his face with his hand, trying to shut him up. He stared at Dorian's eyes, holding his gaze steadily, while he tried to ignore the pounding in his own head. "These aren't your chambers, they're mine. So stop screaming, unless you want someone to find you in here."

He saw he was blocking Dorian's nose as well as his mouth, but waited until he got a shaky nod of understanding before removing his hand.

As soon as his airways were unblocked, Dorian gasped, groaned, fell back against the pillows, flung one arm dramatically across his eyes, and demanded, "What have you done to me? I'm dying… oh, merciful Maker…"

"You're not dying," Bull grumbled, finding it too hard to keep his mood jovial. He stomped over to a table, picked up a bottle, and brought it back to the bed. "You're hungover. Here, take this. It'll help."

Dorian didn't move his arm, keeping up his act, convinced that Bull had done something to him. "I don't trust you, ox-man."

"Then lie there and suffer," Bull tossed the bottle onto the mattress, watching it roll and bounce until it bumped against Dorian's hip, "I don't care. I've done enough for you already."

"What?" Dorian peeked from beneath his forearm, with a strange mixture of curious fury, despite the dryness of his tongue or the splitting of his skull. "What have you done for me? Drugged me? Abducted me? Kept me prisoner in your room?"

"I," he emphasized the word in each sentence, sharply nailed finger jabbing the air each time, his patience gone, "I didn't do anything damaging to you—you managed all that yourself. I kept watch over you while you tried to drown yourself in ale yesterday. I carried you when you were so drunk you had to hold on to the floor to keep from flying off the face of Thedas. I let you sleep it off in my chambers—in my bed—where no one would know of your shame. And I'm the fucking idiot who gave you his last fucking healing potion to cure your fucking hangover when I've got a fucking migraine of my own!"

Dorian had remained silent during the tirade, part fearful and part in awe of the ranting qunari. He shifted to sitting up, the movements slow and deliberate, all the while clutching the sheets higher on his person. He could tell, simply from the way the cloth touched his skin, that he was wearing nothing but his, er, silky under-things. But he could also tell nothing untoward had happened while he'd been incapacitated; the ox-man would have left obvious evidence behind if he'd taken advantage of him. So even though he was practically undressed and in the bed of a mortal enemy, he knew he was, well, in a word, safe.

He couldn't speak his gratitude, however, nor could he give voice to his guilt. His pride had suffered enough lately, thank-you-very-much, what with the colossal realization yesterday that Peredura… He swallowed, not willing to face that particular demon yet, and leaned forwards for the bottle of healing potion. The sheet slipped down to his waist, laying bare his muscular torso for Bull's perusal. With one hand he tried to cover himself while the other groped for the bottle. Normally he wouldn't mind showing off his physique—he worked hard to keep himself tanned and toned—but this morning wasn't the right time. Maybe the right place, if he read correctly the interested glance Bull gave him, but definitely not the right time.

Kaffas, was he actually entertaining the idea of bedding a qunari?!

"Er, this is a fairly large bottle; we could split it, and then go out for more to finish the job." Perhaps he was entertaining the idea.

Bull glanced at him again, and Dorian let the covers slip down to pool around his waist while he unstoppered the bottle. He closed his eyes and took a long pull, drinking half the potion as he had suggested. When he felt the mattress compress under Bull's weight, he opened his eyes and handed the potion over. "Benefaris."

"Benefaris," Bull grunted, taking the bottle.

"By the way, where are my leggings?

"On the stool over there," Bull thumbed over his shoulder with one hand while lifting the bottle to his mouth with the other. He finished off the potion, smacked his lips, and sighed before adding, "Right on top of your skirts."

"They're not skirts, they're robes," he argued, more out of habit than any real heat.

"Whatever. You feeling any better?"

"The headache's eased a bit, if that's what you mean. Stomach's still queasy, though, and…"

"Not about that," Bull stopped him with a wave. "I mean, about the Boss."

Dorian swallowed. The impulse took hold once more, to burrow beneath the sheets where no one would see him, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Fearing Peredura had remembered him, and anxious to know what—if anything—she had told the others, he carefully probed, "You… know about… that?"

"Yeah," Bull nodded, his horns still feeling heavy, but at least the tension in his neck was lessening, "Have for a while. It happened a couple of weeks before you joined up. She'd managed to break her leg, bad, in three places. It's a long story," he decided to leave out the parts about the tampered healing potions or the long trek back to Haven, "But I was the one who took her back to her cabin, after her leg was tended. She had passed out, and I was making her comfortable, taking off her armor and shit, when I pulled off her helmet." He paused to give a single breathy laugh. "Kinda hard to miss, huh? I figured you had seen her ears too, or what's left of them, after the way you were acting yesterday."

"Her… ears?" Dorian tried belatedly to keep the surprise out of his voice. "You've known, er, that she is an elf?"

"Sure."

"And…" he licked his lips, trying to be coy, "And I suppose you've told others about…"

Any good mood Bull might have been nurturing dissipated. He shifted on the bed to face Dorian fully, his voice almost growling as he responded. "Not on your life, Vint. That little lady's been through a shit-storm of trouble already in her young life. I'm not gonna be the one to add to it. No, my Ben-Hassrath superiors don't need to know about her ethnicity, or her background. They're concerned with the Breach and Corypheus, and I'll keep them updated on those matters only." He might have lied a little, by omission, on exactly what the Ben-Hassrath were interested in, but he was telling the truth when he said they didn't need to know about her personal life.

"But," he kept going, since it looked like he had sufficiently cowed Dorian into keeping his mouth shut, for once, and all without having to sew it closed, "I'll admit, my reaction to finding out was pretty much the same as yours. Only it took me three days to reach the bottom of my bottle. I didn't want to see you go through the same."

"So, er," Dorian squirmed a bit, still wondering what exactly was known by whom; there was far more to Peredura's past than simply being an elf. He also wanted to make a break for his leggings, but Bull was leaning across him, his weight pulling the sheets taut across his hips and legs, "Who all knows? About her being an elf. I suppose Seeker Cassandra and Commander…"

"Listen very carefully, because I'm only going to say this once," Bull held one very large, very gray finger an inch away from Dorian's face, hovering right between his eyes, "If you want to know something, go have a talk with Peredura herself. Not everyone knows she's an elf, not everyone can know, and if I ever find out you've betrayed her…"

"Mum's the word, my dear fellow," Dorian quickly agreed, "Mum's the word. I'll forget I ever saw what I thought I saw."

Bull gave a snort through his nostrils much like his namesake. "Good."

"Now, er, do you suppose you could turn around, so I might get dressed?"

He didn't move, remaining leaned over Dorian. "Ah, and here I thought you liked putting on a show."

Dorian managed a bit of bravado, "I do like to perform for an appreciative audience, true, but I don't feel up to it quite yet this morning. Head's still a bit tender. Mind letting me get dressed? Then we can go and find some more of that delectable hangover medicine. And after that, well," he patted Bull's arm suggestively, "We'll just have to wait and see."

He hesitated half a heartbeat longer, before he leaned away and removed his arm, allowing Dorian to escape. "Sounds good to me, mage-boy."

Dorian couldn't help the smile that tinted his lips, a nice warm feeling bubbling up within his chest. Though Bull had thrown an insult at him, it was spoken with something akin to… well, fondness, really, if he wanted to put an exact word to it. Neither could he help his own voice turning soft and a little sultry as he responded, "Savage."

* * *

Peredura was propped up against the pillows, a cup of cold broth near at hand. Cullen was sitting on the couch, a pile of reports to either side of him. She was watching him work; he'd take a report from one side, read it, make a mark or two on it, and set it on the other side. It was efficient, quick, and mind-numbingly monotonous. In a peculiar way, she found it extremely soothing.

"You really should try to get some rest."

He hadn't moved, hadn't looked up, but as he was the only other person in the room, she knew he had been the one who had spoken. She weakly shook her head. Maker knew she was tired, but that bone-deep ache had begun to settle into her limbs; sleep would not be coming any time soon—even if she didn't fear the nightmares. "No."

He heard her response, barely distinguishable from a moan, and looked up. She was almost lost within a pile of pillows, the blanket pulled up and tucked beneath her chin, her long brown hair spread out across the white sheets like a banner caught in a breeze. Her skin was damp with sweat again, he noticed, and her face was flushed. He set aside the last report and stood, approaching the bed softly. "Would you like me to reheat the broth for you?" he motioned to the untouched cup.

"No," she repeated, beginning to sound frustrated. "I don't need anything to eat right now. I don't need sleep. I don't need tea. I need…" Her words cut off as her face screwed up in pain, briefly, but it was enough to encourage him to reach her side. She opened her eyes as he sat down on the mattress, the deep brown orbs looming large against the pale backdrop of the sheets. "Talk with me. Please."

"Of course," he readily agreed. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything," she groaned. "I don't care. I just need something to distract me."

"Distract you from what?"

She groaned again.

"Sorry. Sorry. That's not helping, is it. Well, then, something to talk about," he racked his brain for a topic, feeling put on the spot, but nothing came to mind. There really wasn't anything he wanted to talk with her about, not right now while she was so sick. His mind uncooperatively blank, he looked around the room for inspiration, and his eyes fell upon the report he had just finished reading. "Er, there's the garden. Mother Giselle has found an expert gardener, who's quite good at, um, gardening, and such. She'll be planting, er, plants, in planters, ah, in the spring. You know, elfroot and embrium and other herbs and such for the healers, useful plants, I suppose some of them will flower, embrium flowers, doesn't it, can't remember if elfroot does…"

"Lilacs?" she asked, more than a little bit hopeful.

Cullen had to smile; with a single word she'd not only rescued him from his babbling, but brought back pleasant memories—for both of them. "I'll put in a request on your behalf, first thing tomorrow morning," he agreed. He was rewarded with a smile, a wan little thing more sensed than seen, but he knew it was there. "I've no idea what sort of plans the gardener is making already, but I'm sure one corner could be spared for a lilac bush. It is a pleasing thing to look at, and the scent is, er, nice, I'm sure she'll agree to at least one."

"That would be nice," Peredura all but whispered her response, shifting slightly on the bed, as if she couldn't find a comfortable position. Her brow furrowed briefly, but she made herself continue to talk. "Um, how are the other repairs and improvements coming along? Has the West Gate been fixed?"

"The main portcullis is working," he changed topics as swiftly as she did, without batting an eye, following her lead verbally while studying her appearance and actions. Though he had gone through his own withdrawal not that long ago, her's was different. He had very little idea what she was currently experiencing, or what would happen to her next, but he liked to think he was prepared for nearly every eventuality. Yet he had to watch her like a hawk, if he wanted to anticipate what that need would be. "The heavy wooden doors have all but rotted away. I have carpenters working on replacing them, but it will be another couple of weeks before they can be hung in place. Until then, I believe the portcullis is sufficient to keep Skyhold safe, not to mention the army of recruits camped all through the valley leading up to the gate."

"How are…" she paused to press her lips tightly together, a greenish tint coming to her skin. She swallowed some excess saliva before trying to speak again, "How are the newest recruits coming along?" Again she swallowed; her mouth simply wouldn't stop watering, and not in a pleasant manner.

"Quite well, surprisingly," he allowed. "We're beginning to get actual soldiers, even a few former templars, rather than inexperienced farmers or the bored, younger sons of noblemen who don't know the difference between a lance and a rapier…" He went on for a bit, his mouth running on automatic while he watched and waited, recognizing the signs, knowing—as she obviously did—what was about to happen, that it was inevitable, however undesirable, but ultimately unavoidable.

Finally it occurred. Peredura made a small mewling noise, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with panic, looking this way and that, trying to find someplace she could…

"Here," he said. Without waiting for her cooperation, he grabbed her shoulder and shoved her towards the side of the bed, directly over where he had a bucket waiting for just such a situation. While she vacated what little was in her stomach, he focused on keeping her from slipping off the bed or her hair from falling in the way or the cup of broth from spilling onto the sheets. He shut his ears against the sounds, steeled his stomach not to lurch with sympathy pains, and waited for the spell to end.

At long last she gave a final cough, sniffed, and limply tried to roll back from the side of the bed. He took over for her, settling her against the pillows, pulling the blanket halfway up her chest and tucking it in, smoothing a wayward strand from the corner of her mouth. He studied her gray face, glazed eyes, and sweaty temples, "Now you're the one pushing themselves too hard. You really do need to rest." He pulled back to stand up from the bed.

She didn't argue the point, couldn't garner the strength to find the words to communicate her dread. Instead she closed her eyes, letting the cushions support her, letting Cullen take care of matters—simply letting go. Incurious she listened to what was going on around her, the crackling of logs in the hearth, the birds singing outside her balcony doors, the soft protest of moving fabric and leather. A masculine scent assailed her nostrils, nothing unpleasant, but reminiscent of leather and sweat and steel—and so achingly familiar. The bed creaked beneath a heavy weight, the covers moved across her as something pulled them, and she knew Cullen had returned. Lastly there was the gentle drip of water, the delicate scent of lilacs, and the coolness of a soft cloth against her skin.

She blinked her eyes open to find Cullen leaning over her, wiping clean her face and neck.

"I thought you were asleep," he hummed.

She shook her head, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyebrows. "No. I don't want to sleep anymore, not now, not when…" She stopped speaking suddenly, the dread returning with haunting power, making her suddenly fearful of giving it voice lest she give it dominion over her.

Her lower lip squirmed between her teeth.

The pad of his thumb pulled it free.

She blinked at him, surprised by the action, and confused by what it could mean. He waited until he had her attention before he removed his hand, but then pretended unconcern as he resumed his ministrations. Her tunic was soaked through in sweat, and he imagined she would appreciate a change of clothing, just as she undoubtedly appreciated the damp cloth cleaning her skin. His fingers nearly dropped the cloth at that thought. Maker, was he actually going to do that? Was he truly thinking about washing her body, running his hands all over her? He didn't think he could, he didn't think he should—not even to slip inside her sleeves to wash her arms—but neither could he callously hand her the cloth to do it herself. He was supposed to be taking care of her, as she had of him, but he couldn't bring himself… it wouldn't be proper… far too intimate a touch… "Um, Solas said you were, er, experiencing nightmares," he said, wiping a stray drop of sick from the side of one hand. He didn't look at her, thinking he was allowing her the space needed to get control of herself, ignoring the fact that he was the one who needed the space. "Is that why you don't want to rest?"

She didn't answer him, but her silence was answer enough.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he was sufficiently distracted from his earlier inappropriate thoughts, focusing now on her mental troubles. "It helps, you know, to share bad experiences with someone who'll understand."

She felt the shame, hearing her own words used against her, knowing she couldn't tell him, not yet, not until she was stronger, not until she would be able to survive the pain of his feelings towards her turning into disgust… She choked off a sob as she choked off that line of thought, and instead of speaking about her nightmares—her secret—she stubbornly shook her head. "Solas mentioned," her brown eyes lifted to his face in what she hoped was a beguiling manner, "You searched the cabin where the mage was hiding?"

He made an agreeable sound, thoroughly rinsing out the cloth before folding it neatly to place over her forehead.

"What did you find? In the cabin. He must have left, um, some evidence, or…"

"Stop right there," he commanded, his voice a caress, his words a wall. "I know what you're going to ask."

"I just wanted to know what you found, if there was anything that would speak to where he came from. He… he… ah… told me he was planning to bring me to Corypheus. If there was something there that would indicate where that might be, where Corypheus was hiding…"

"Are you sure you weren't going to ask if we found any opeigh?"

She felt like a child, caught with her hands full of stollen cookies. "He said…" she stuttered, feeling overwhelmed, feeling her bones ache, feeling her skin crawl, feeling her stomach try to climb upwards and out of her throat. She didn't know what she was saying, not really, only that she had to keep talking. "He said, that he would use the opeigh to keep me quiet, all the way back to Corypheus…"

"Pere," Cullen's tone was full of warning.

She didn't heed him. "…but what he gave me wasn't enough, it wouldn't have lasted, not that long, not unless Corypheus was close to Skyhold, but we haven't seen any sign of that, so he must've had more of it, more opeigh, somewhere in the cabin or nearby or…"

"Or perhaps on his person, and he took his supply of opeigh with him when he fled," he finished for her, his words final. "Pere, listen to me: I swear to you, we did not find any opeigh. We only found one empty vial. That was all."

"But…" she bit her lip, drawing blood.

He pulled it free, wiping away the drop. "I know," he breathed, his voice empathetic and forceful and anguished, all at the same time. "I know what you're feeling. I know what you're thinking. But I'm here with you, Peredura, I'm not going to let you face this alone. I'm not going to let you fail." He leaned in close, a hand to either side of her face, holding her and making her look at him. "You did the same for me. Let me return the favor."

Tears. Tears and a blubbering spurt of laughter that quickly digressed into sobs. Unable to see through the tears, she felt herself pulled forward and pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady in her ear, his arms warm and secure around her. She held on tight, as if she could physically leach off of his might to reinforce her waning strength. "I can't," she whispered through the torment, "It's too hard. I know, I know, I can do this, I've done this, you've done this," she paused to sniff, "But that'll be at some point in the future; right now it just hurts!" Her hands gripped the fabric of his jacket; if she had the power, she would have left wrinkles in the tough leather. "I thought, maybe, if you had found some opeigh, then maybe just a little bit, not enough to block out everything, just enough to take the edge off the pain…"

"No," he disagreed, stroking her hair down her back. Maker, how he knew what she was feeling, what she was hoping, and how terrible he felt knowing he had to crush her hopes. "I know what you want to have happen. But would it work that way? Would it really? Could you take a little bit of opeigh, and not slip into a stupor? Would a small amount take away the pain, without feeding the craving?"

She hated to admit it, feeling the chagrin as keenly as the pain, her voice childish and pouty as she said, "No."

"Then there's no point in trying, is there? Even if we had the opeigh. There is no 'little bit', Pere, not for us, not anymore. If we take anything, any amount, then we've failed, we're right back where we started, and we would have to go through this all over again. I wouldn't want to do that; once was enough for me. And, I don't think you'd want to, either. I know this time you didn't have a choice, like last time…"

"Last time the mark was trying to kill me!" she half-shouted against his chest. "So of course it was bad. And the times before…!" she bit off her words, fearing she had spoken too much.

It felt like a knife, an old and rusty and blunt blade had been pushed and shoved straight through his heart. He tensed, from his scalp to the soles of his feet, and he feared she could feel it, but he could not stop himself. He knew—sweet merciful Maker—he knew, "Vicici took you off of opeigh before, didn't he."

It wasn't a question, but she answered, "As a punishment, mostly. At first he wanted to see how addicted I was, if the opeigh was working as a deterrent against escape. Later, he'd deliberately withhold it, and forced me to do things—help in his blood magic—before he'd let me have any more. Sometimes…" she had to fight to get the words out, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Sometimes, he'd do it just to see how long I could go, just to see what it would do to me…"

Her voice faded into sobs once more. Cullen didn't press the issue, knowing it wouldn't help her right then, knowing he had made his point. She wasn't truly looking for another dose of opeigh; she had only needed to talk about her addiction, to excise the poison from her soul with words. He sat and held her and waited for the tears to stop, all the while thinking of Vicici and the hell he had put her through. But her trembling continued, her body shaking and sweating and fighting through her withdrawal. He thought about letting her go, setting her back against the pillows, allowing her to rest, but her hands continued to grip him fiercely, as if all her strength was in her fingertips. She needed him right then, and—ever attentive to her needs—he gave.

"I promise you, Peredura, if Vicici were alive, I would hunt him down and kill him. If I knew where to find his body, if there was a body to recover, I'd have Dorian reanimate his corpse so I could kill him again. Slowly. Painfully. Over and over. One time for every harm he's done to you."

The tears slowed. She was overwhelmed by his fierce pledge, his bloodthirsty oath, his unquestioning loyalty. She gave a final sniff and leaned back, just far enough to see his face. "You'd… you'd do that… for me…?"

There was irony here somewhere, seeing as how his angry and hateful words had finally provided her with comfort. But he had to admit it to himself, that yes, he would do that for her. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and was reminded of other harms Vicici had inflicted upon her. She obviously remembered it as well, her eyes sliding from his, her neck tensing as if she wanted to pull away from his hand, hide her ear, retreat into that quiet girl she had been when they first met. He had to say something; he couldn't let her turn from the brave young woman she was now, back into that timid creature so fearful of her own shadow.

"Yes," he answered simply, any eloquent words escaping him. Yet it seemed simplicity did the trick, her face lifting up, her gaze returning to his. One of his hands picked up the cloth that had fallen from her forehead onto her lap. He brought it up to her face, wiping off her cheeks, wiping off her tears, wiping off every painful and loathsome and disgusting memory. He watched her dark brown eyes blink at him, eyes that reminded him of a doe, wide and cautious, a heartbeat away from bolting away through the woods.

He didn't want to let her go.

"Would you like to try to rest now?"

That had been the wrong thing to say, the fear and pain returning.

"No more nightmares," he quickly added, "I promise, I'll stay awake and keep them at bay."

Mutely she shook her head.

"Peredura," his eyes narrowed as he studied her face, "What is it? What's troubling you still? Why are you so afraid of your dreams?" As soon as the question left his lips, he knew the answer. "Oh, of course. Forgive me, Pere, I didn't stop to think, but you were a slave, weren't you, and… Vicici… he did more to you than withhold opeigh, didn't he. He… he took advantage… of his ownership of your person…" he had to pause and swallow, trying to ease the tight knot in his throat, "And those things he did to you… are what haunts you in your dreams… the opeigh bringing back the memories…"

He was so close to the truth, and so far from it. "No, please, Cullen, I don't want to tell you, it was so long ago, leave it be, it's over…"

"It's not over," he argued, "Not if it's continuing to trouble you. Not if it's giving you nightmares. Peredura," he took both her hands in his, having to pry them off of his jacket first. "Peredura, Vicici is dead. Gone. He cannot hurt you any longer. Believe me; you're safe from him. He can no longer force you… touch you…" Blessed Andraste, if he couldn't bring himself to give it voice, how could he expect her to speak of it.

Yet, miraculously, she did. "It wasn't Vicici."

The words were quiet, merely a breath, made more terrible by their lack of fervor. It wasn't something she wanted to talk about, but she had no more strength to continue to resist. And if she told anyone, she wanted that person to be Cullen. Half in a state of dazedness, half in a state of denial, the words began to fall from her lips.

"Vicici never asserted his rights over me, sexually," she made herself clarify. "He was afraid that if I conceived, the power in my blood would pass to the child. He knew he couldn't use a baby for the rituals." She gave a funny sort of huff. "Even Vicici wasn't insane enough to sacrifice an infant to blood magic. And he didn't want to have to wait several years before the child would be old enough to survive the loss of blood. So he took measures to ensure I would never become pregnant, kept me isolated from other slaves, always made sure a female guard was watching me, never left me unsupervised if we weren't at his estate… things like that."

He still held her hands, and she made no move to break free. If anything, she seemed to want to draw closer, to come under his protection, to leech off of his warmth and strength. "Then, if it wasn't Vicici," he swallowed, the answer coming to him as soon as he spoke, "Maker's breath, it was the male mage, the one who abducted you, the one who's been trying to kill you. He…" Cullen couldn't bring himself to say it, but he didn't have to, Peredura's earlier reluctance had worn down to nothing, her exhaustion left her numb.

"It might have been a month before the Conclave, it might have been a year, I don't remember. There was a meeting at another magister's estate, a gathering of Venatori, all of them blood mages. My mast… er, Vicici had me… he liked to show off how subservient I was… he had me bleed for him…"

Cullen wished he could close off his ears. The thought of blood magic… of Peredura being forced to participate… of what Vicici did to her—with her… all of it made his blood boil, made the bile rise in the back of his throat, made his own unwanted memories turn vivid and sharp. But she spoke, and he listened.

"I didn't really know what was happening, what had taken place, other than a lot of blood, a lot of demons," she paused to shudder, and he pulled her even closer. "But afterwards, Vicici was very pleased. With the outcome. With me. Whatever. I didn't care. I only wanted the opeigh. He took me to an alcove and handed over the bottles. I took the opeigh first, I needed it so badly, but Vicici made me take the healing potion, too. Then someone came for him, and he had to leave me for a few moments. He told me not to leave the alcove, and then he left.

"I stood there, just stood there, waiting, feeling the opeigh start to take over, watching my wounds close and heal. The curtains moved, but it wasn't Vicici who entered the alcove." She trembled, and one of his hands let go to encircle her, to stroke her back, to try to comfort her. "I don't know who he was. I'd never seen him before that night, and I never would again, not until the other day. But I'll never forget his face. Swarthy skin. Lean and angular features. Pockmarked cheeks. Ice blue eyes."

She couldn't speak it. She simply could not give it voice. Yet neither could she remain silent.

"He told me to lie down on the couch, and I obeyed—the thought never crossed my mind to defy him. He touched me, touched himself, had me touch him. It hurt, whatever he did to me, but the healing potion was still working, still healing whatever harm he caused. He laughed at that, took enjoyment from it, and he hurt me more.

"He was on his second time, when Vicici came back and saw what he was doing," she paused to hiccough. "Vicici was angry, shouting, threatening to kill the other mage, but someone else with him wouldn't allow it. So Vicici banished the other mage, told him to run. I don't know what happened next; the opeigh had taken effect and everything's blurry. But there were more precautions after that, and I was never alone again, unless I was locked away safely in my cell."

There it was, all the hateful ugly truth, heavy in the air between them, lying across their laps like a macabre blanket. And here it comes, she told herself, the moment when he left her; she felt the tension in his arms, the spasming of his fingers. But she was sick, and tired, and somehow knew he'd find out eventually so maybe it was better if he learned of her sinful past and she quit pretending she was a normal person and let go of the silly dream of being in love with Cullen or any man her past her previous life too ugly for anyone to share…

"He doesn't deserve to live."

The words were flat and forceful, breaking through her tumbled thoughts, breaking her out of her self-made prison of disgust and despair. She lifted her doe-like eyes to his, saw the harsh hazel orbs burn with ire, and was amazed to learn the hatred and anger wasn't aimed at her.

"Anyone who would," he had to stop, his words coming out strangled, too tight to be understood. Taking a deep breath he attempted to calm himself, and tired again, "Anyone who would force himself on another person, doesn't deserve to be called a 'man.' He's more a beast, selfish, primal, un-evolved. He only deserves to be hunted down and slaughtered like the rabid animal he is."

"Cullen…?" she finally found her voice, but he acted like he didn't hear her.

If he couldn't kill Vicici for her, he'd do the next best thing. "I swear to you, Peredura," he continued, "I swear with every breath of my being, that I will hunt down this mage. I will apprehend him, I will make him answer for his crimes, I will kill him slowly and painfully for what he did to you. On my soul I swear this to you!"

Too much, she thought to herself, there was too much happening in her life right now. The Breach, the mark, Corypheus, freedom, becoming Inquisitor, Cullen… She was overwhelmed, almost scared by it all, but she didn't feel she deserved his loyalty—his oath—and began shaking her head. "No, Cullen, you don't need to…"

"I do," he interrupted, holding her head, one hand to either side of her face, "Or rather, you need this. You need to know, you are important. You are a person. You did nothing to deserve what he did to you. Rather, you deserve justice. I will give you that, or if not, I will give you vengeance. He will not hurt you again."

He was sincere, honest, open, and he was doing this for her. Tears welled up once more—she had to be dehydrated by now from all the crying—feelings so strange and alien filling her up from within and pushing the moisture out. All the fears and anxieties over keeping her secrets safe were gone, replaced by acceptance, understanding, compassion, empathy… love…? Blessed Andraste, she couldn't hope for that, not yet, not with Cullen, she didn't dare…

Yet she dared. She closed her eyes and nodded, accepting his oath, as he accepted her—all of her ugly past and dangerous present and uncertain future. She felt him tense again, but he only shifted her around until she was cradled on his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms around her like a blanket. His heartbeat was a consistency—something stable she could hold on to, something that would always be there, something she could always rely upon.

"I hope this is love," she whispered, already falling asleep.

Cullen didn't quite hear what she said, his mind too full of all the nasty things he wanted to do to a certain mage. Oh, sure, he was once a templar, deeply religious and ever laboring to follow in the Maker's footsteps. And though he had left that life behind, he continued to try to hold himself to a higher standard and be merciful to his fellow man—but this mage was no man. This mage deserved no quarter, and Cullen would offer none. The impulse to leave that moment and begin his hunt was strong, but with Peredura in his arms—sleeping, at long last, deep and restful—he decided the hunt could wait. Besides, it was likely this mage would try again, would come to them, and Cullen would be ready.

He moved carefully, slowly, easing her back against the pillows, tucking the blanket in around her, praying she'd stay asleep, selfishly wanting the next hour or so all to himself—in order to finalize a trap or two for the mage. That wasn't yet to be, unfortunately, a knock sounding on the door downstairs along with an insistent, yet happy, bark. Quickly he looked at Peredura, but she remained slumbering, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and steady. Trying not to feel cheated out of his quiet time, he stood up from the bed and stepped softly—for a man wearing boots—down the steps.

"Yes?" he asked, opening the portal to see Cassandra standing there with Fear by her side.

"Hello, Cullen," she acknowledged him, trying to ignore the mabari's ceaseless pulling on a makeshift lead. "Blackwall said that Fear has recovered sufficiently from his injuries, and I volunteered to bring him back to Peredura. How is she, by the way?"

"Asleep," he answered, not moving out of the way lest it would encourage the hound to break free and make a run for it, "Finally. She's had a rough morning, was sick once, and is very weak. But I think she's about to turn a corner and start recovering." Even Cullen eventually had to pay attention to Fear, his antics and begging and whining becoming too strong to disregard. "Oh, very well. You may go upstairs and see her, but stay off the bed! She needs her rest."

Fear gave a quiet bark, as if he completely understood Cullen's command, and pulled his lead from Cassandra's fingers. He bounded up the steps on oversized paws, stubby tail quivering with excitement, tongue lolling the whole way.

"Is she…" Cassandra began, and just as quickly stopped, and just as quickly started once more, "Is she… angry… about what happened… about what I did…?"

"No, Cassandra," he sighed, letting her off the hook. Truthfully, they hadn't talked that much about who was responsible for putting her inside the never-ending nightmare of torment. But Peredura looked to her as a sister, trusted her, loved her—in a way. He was sure she would not blame Cassandra for anything that happened with the sleeping potion. Besides, she had much more pressing matters to deal with, such as a queasy stomach and exhaustion and out-of-control emotions. Maker, how he wished Cassandra would leave so he could deal with his own out-of-control emotions. He rubbed at his brow as he continued, "She has her hands full just now, dealing with her withdrawal, but we've done some talking and she doesn't hold a grudge against you. She knows you only had her best interests at heart, and had no idea the nightmares would occur."

Cassandra seemed to believe him, relaxing her stance and moving back from the door. "That is well. I wanted to see her, to explain… but no matter. She has forgiven me, and is sleeping, both of these good things. I won't disturb her. But when she wakes, tell her…" she stopped, her hand coming up as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words, "…tell her…" The hand dropped in defeat.

"I will," Cullen promised, not sure what message he was supposed to convey, but it seemed to satisfy the Seeker. She nodded without another word and turned to walk down the steps and away from the door.

Cullen sighed, shutting the door and leaning against it for a moment. Quite a lot had happened so far that day, but at least he had gotten through his stack of paperwork. Yet it was tiring, dealing with Peredura's withdrawal and emotional hurts on little to no sleep. After indulging in the single moment to catch his breath, he launched himself off the wood and up the steps, to make sure Fear hadn't gotten into anything while he'd been unsupervised.

The mabari sat on his haunches beside the bed, his head resting lightly on the mattress, his deep brown eyes staring dolefully at his partner. He flicked his eyes to Cullen as he approached, his head twitching only a little, before he resumed his longing gaze.

"You're a spoiled mutt," he grumbled good-naturedly, "Go ahead. Up on the bed with you. But don't wake her. She needs her rest."

Fear needed no further permission. In a single leap he landed on the mattress beside Peredura. Quickly he snuffled around her face and shoulder, satisfying himself that though she was sick, she would recover. He watched her closely as she responded to his nudges, smiling and sighing a little before falling back asleep. Then he moved down to her hip, padded the blankets into submission as he turned in a circle three times, and plopped himself down curled into a tight ball to fall asleep.

Cullen had held his breath, waiting for Fear to wake her, second-guessing his decision to let the hound onto the bed. But during his recovery, Peredura had stated that he was calmer whenever Fear was near him; perhaps the mabari would do the same for her. Satisfied that the hound hadn't woken her and the two were sleeping peacefully, he moved away from the bed and returned to the couch. With a particular disgusting mage foremost in his thoughts, he picked up an extra piece of parchment and his stylus, and began sketching out one or two of his more simpler ideas for dealing with the son of a bitch. Simpler was better, he told himself, though it was hard to resist the urge to embellish.

Well, he reconsidered, perhaps just one overly elaborate trap, not to use, certainly, but simply to satisfy his bloodlust.

Happily Cullen spent the rest of the afternoon, humming a hymn under his breath, stylus making dry scratches on unsuspecting parchment.


	20. A Kind Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it's been almost three months since the last time I posted a chapter for this story! Sorry, my dears, but real life has been really sucky lately—the time I can use for writing has been reduced drastically. Good news, however, I did finish my Skyrim fic, so I only have the two Dragon Age stories to divide my writing time between. Posting will still be slow due to that other world outside of fan fiction, but I will never abandon this fic! (Hey, you can trust me; I've just proven that I can finish a fic, so chances are good that I'll finish these two, too.) :'D
> 
> As an apology, here is a lovely little bit of Cullen-awkwardness. Possibly a bit OOC and definitely not necessary to the story, but I simply could not resist the visions it put in my mind. I hope you enjoy…

It had been a long night, and not just because it had started so early in the afternoon of the day before.

Peredura had had dreams, she was sure of it. She could vaguely remember them, like looking through a mist at night, indistinct shadows and washed-out colors, muted voices and indiscernible sounds. Yet every time she started to whimper or moan, every time she began to feel fear creeping into her visions, someone would appear. A knight would come into the dream, stand between her and that which she feared, brandish his sword and vanquish her nightmare without a word and hardly any effort. Then he'd turn to her, show himself to be Cullen, wrap his arms around her, and rock her back to sleep.

She wasn't sure how much of that was her dream, and how much actually happened, but it was comforting to imagine he had kept his word. He had stood guard over her during her sleep and chased the nightmares away.

It was with a smile that she woke in the morning, a small thing, a gentle thing, and a short-lived thing. As soon as her eyes opened the smile vanished to be replaced by a slightly furrowed brow of confusion. It took a moment for her eyes to focus, and another for her brain to figure out what she was seeing. Fear was lying on the bed next to her, fast asleep. He was in what had to be an uncomfortable position, lying on his back, his head and shoulders at a ninety-degree angle to his haunches. Yet he was undoubtedly comfortable, his legs relaxed and spread wide enough to show…

She looked away, not really wising to see that. What she saw instead, however, almost made her laugh. On her other side she saw Cullen, who was also still asleep, lying on the couch. He was sprawled over the cushions, limbs flung haphazardly over the arms and back, his massive form nearly swallowing the piece of furniture. She had the impish thought that he didn't look all that different from her mabari other than, of course, he was clothed.

She felt heat flush her face at that thought.

She didn't think she'd made any noise or movement, but she suddenly knew Fear was awake. He didn't move, other than to twitch one back paw and open his eyes to look at her. Seeing that she was awake, though not in any pain or danger, he closed his eyes and appeared to drift back to sleep. Peredura let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She supposed it didn't matter if she woke either of them, it was morning after all, but she knew from experience what would happen as soon as she started moving, and she wanted to take care of any ickiness without an audience. Carefully, nudging Fear slightly—who only rolled onto his side and stubbornly refused to leave the bed—she slipped out from beneath the covers and tried to stand.

Immediately she was light-headed and dizzy, causing a wave of giddiness and a fine film of sweat to burst from her pores. But she kept her feet, kept them all the way to the small closet beside the bed. There she knelt and, as quietly as she could, took care of the distasteful matter. Maker, but she didn't like this part, the sickness, the upset stomach, the way it roiled and boiled, the way it tried to heave itself up along with what little was inside it. She gave a quiet cough, spat, and wiped a bit of sick off the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

The unpleasantness finished, she took a moment to catch her breath and clear her head, her muscles aching from the heaving as well as from the withdrawal. She knew the worst was over, that things would get better, that there could only be a few more days where she'd be this sick in the mornings. But the ache would linger for a week or more, settle in her very bones and make everything hurt. She had to move. She had to distract herself. She had to keep busy. That was the best way to fight the pain; ignore it.

The door opened a crack, not far enough for Cullen to see inside, just far enough for him to pass in a small, damp towel. She had to smile again, in part due to the giddiness, but also because she loved the awkward way he took care of her while maintaining a proper amount of modesty. She leaned over and made a grab for the towel, having to try twice before her fingers could grasp it. Then she set herself against the wall and groaned softly into the towel.

"There was a bucket beside the bed," he said matter-of-factly. "No need for you to make yourself crawl halfway across the room."

"I didn't crawl," she mumbled, her words muffled by the cloth. Maker, but it felt nice and cool on her heated skin, and smelled so much nicer than what she had just been smelling. "Nor was it all that far. Besides, I didn't want to wake you."

"I woke anyway; I am a light sleeper," he reminded her. "Are you finished, do you think? Would you like some help getting back into bed?"

She hummed an answer.

He took it to mean yes.

Cautiously he opened the door a little wider, far enough for one eye to peek inside. He had been apprehensive about what he would see, what state of dress—or undress—she might be in, but his shoulders sagged a little in relief to find her still wearing her tunic and leggings. Then a thought occurred to him, something he decided to suggest before she left the relative privacy of the closet. "Would you care to undress? I mean, change your dress. Your clothes. Would you care to change your clothing into some fresh, er, clothing…"

There was a noise that slipped out from beneath the towel, something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. When her eyes came into view, he found himself hard pressed to hold her gaze steadily and not blush or duck his head. Maker, but that had come out wrong. The best thing to do, he reasoned, was to act as if he hadn't said anything that could be misconstrued as forward or scandalous. He failed miserably.

Peredura nearly giggled a second time when she saw the look on his face, and the light-headedness was not helping her keep a straight face. "That sounds like a good idea," she managed, keeping the towel in place until she could squash the smile, "Thank you."

"Oh!" He sounded surprised or caught off guard, but whether over her acceptance of his suggestion or her ignoring his slip, she couldn't tell. "Good. Well. Then. I'll just, er, leave you to it, to do it, or…"

She nodded and looked away, smoothing over the awkwardness. As much fun, and distracting, as it was to watch him stutter and squirm, the thought of feeling clean clothing against her skin was far more desirable. She shifted her feet beneath her and made to stand, but her stomach cramped, causing her to reconsider her plans. With a small grunt she fell back against the wall. "I, um, I'd rather not move around too much right now. Could you bring me a change of clothing?" she asked, "Or a bath. Blessed Andraste, but I'd love a bath right now. A big copper tub with loads of bubbles and scented soaps. Big fluffy towels warming by the fire. Then a fresh change of clothes, thick and warm and soft, clean clothes against my clean skin." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, her expression one of sheer bliss as she lost herself in the simple little daydream.

Blessed Andraste, he repeated to himself, but she could take his breath away. Here she was, first thing in the morning after a rough night, just having spent several minutes being sick, her hair snarled and her clothing wrinkled and her skin oily and slick with grime and stale sweat. But at this moment, her features in profile, her expression open and genuine, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. "I'll see to it personally."

His answer had a somewhat alarming effect on her, as a figment Cullen entered her daydream, coming up beside her in the copper tub, wash cloth in hand. The giggle escaped this time, no thanks to the giddiness, the words quickly tumbling out before she could stop them. "Commander! Did you just offer to bathe me?"

"What?!" he started in horror, and guilt—perhaps he had been thinking along those lines, or about to think along those lines. "No-no-no-no, I don't mean me, personally. I said personally, I know, but I didn't mean I'd actually physically bathe you. I-I-I-I was going to… call the servants… that was my personal part… call the servants for you… have them draw you the bath… and the towels and anything else you wanted… I should go do that…" Quickly he tried to extricate himself, to beat a hasty retreat, falling into his old habit of Standard Tactic Number One: Retreat.

She blamed the light-headedness for making her tease Cullen. She watched him turn to run away, his face beet red, his stuttering words trailing off in embarrassment. She felt a little guilt too, knowing she had not even tried to squelch the impulse to purposefully take his words the wrong way. She began climbing to her feet, an apology on her lips, "Cullen, wait, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

Apparently teasing Cullen was a little too distracting. She had not only managed to forget the aches in her body, she had also managed to forget how weak she had become. Her words died out as her breaths grew shallow, suddenly finding herself having to fight to fill her lungs with air. The room gave a funny lurch, as if a giant had picked up the whole of Skyhold and tipped it on its side. She became dizzy, probably due to the room tipping, and reached out for the frame of the doorway. Her fingers closed on empty air and she felt herself falling backwards into darkness.

Cullen had nearly gained the top of the stairs, his hand on the railing, when he heard Fear's warning bark. He turned around just in time to see her eyes roll up and her knees buckle. She folded like a rag doll, her body crumbling to the floor in slow motion, but not slow enough to allow him to reach her in time.

"Peredura!"

Thankfully, her head just missed the edge of the bucket she'd been using. Her hair, however, was not as fortunate. The long brown strands fell across the bucket, draping themselves over the edges before the ends puddled down into the bottom. He made a face of disgust as he fell to his knees by her side, but he lifted her inert form and carried her away.

She remained limp in his embrace, one arm dangling towards the floor, her hair dripping a trail behind them. His first thought was to place her on the bed, but he didn't think she'd thank him for that. With her head covered in sick, the mess would get all over the bedclothes. The couch was his next thought, but that, too, was quickly dismissed, the upholstery even harder to clean than the bedclothes.

"Maker's breath, what am I to do with you?"

The answer was obvious, but he stubbornly did his best not to see it. After all, that would mean… he would have to… and then…

He wasn't a man who swore. Oh, he'd often use the Maker's name in some mild curse, as he had just done a moment ago, but he rarely if ever used the harsher, more crass swear words. He'd never really felt the need to express that much emotion over anything—until now. Peredura needed to be cleaned up. She couldn't do it herself, that much was obvious; even if she was conscious, he wouldn't feel comfortable leaving her alone to bathe in a tub in case she had another fainting spell. And he couldn't very well call a servant to keep an eye her; they would see the scars and her ears—considering how badly her hair needed a wash—and her secret would be all over Skyhold by sunset. He supposed he could send for Cassandra, but it would take time to track her down and get her here before he could explain what had happened—it wasn't like he could ask a servant to find Cassandra because the Inquisitor had fallen into a bucket of sick and needed her hair cleaned! And there was no other woman Peredura was close to, no one else she trusted as much as she trusted… well… as much as she trusted… him.

"…fuck…"

All in all, he didn't think it was a bad attempt at swearing. He was sure Varric could come up with fifteen far more elaborate ways of describing what he was feeling, and probably in fifteen seconds, but he himself was a simple man. If an easy, straightforward approach would work, then why mess it up with unnecessary bells and whistles. You have an enemy on the battlefield; you run him through with your sword. You find yourself trapped in an impossibly awkward and unavoidable situation; you swear.

He set her down gently on the rug before the hearth. "This will be easiest to clean," he explained, not that she could hear him, "And the fire should keep you warm. Now stay here, I'll be right back." Cullen stood up and caught Fear staring at him, watching them both intently. "You, see to it she doesn't move. Oh," he had begun to move away, to collect the items he was going to need, but then another thought occurred to him, "And make sure I do nothing, er, inappropriate, regarding her person. Understood?"

Fear tilted his head, first one way, and then the other, his short ears perked up high, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, as if pondering what exactly Cullen had meant. Then he laid down on his belly, still on the foot of the bed, his back legs to either side, his front legs bent before him, and his head and shoulders up and alert, reminding Cullen of some mythical creature such as a sphinx.

"Good man, er, boy," he nodded in approval.

He decided the best way for him to go about this was to simply do it, quickly and efficiently, much like he would dress a wound on the battlefield. He had no plans to actually bathe her, not like she had just been teasing him—and not at all like the thoughts he'd had yesterday. No, ser, he was merely going to wash the sick out of her hair, and perhaps change her tunic.

He began by gathering the supplies he would need. He stalked over to her wardrobe and rummaged for a clean tunic, something thick and soft like she had been talking about. Next he found a bar of soap, sniffed it to make sure it smelled of lilacs, and picked up a towel he could use for drying her hair. There was a wash basin on top of a dresser; he brought that over to the hearth rug as well as a pitcher of clean water.

He knelt down next to her, studying her, planning his method of attack. "Right. Hair first, then the tunic," he decided.

Fear made some sort of approving sound.

"I'm glad you agree," Cullen deadpanned.

Fear answered with a whine, sounding a bit confused.

"I know, I asked you to keep an eye on me," Cullen responded, explaining. He poured some water into the basin before lifting Peredura up with an arm beneath her shoulders. "But you don't have to comment on everything I say."

Fear's brow wrinkled, and he set his muzzle down between his two forepaws, his big brown eyes staring dolefully at them both.

"You're a good boy, Fear, just…" Cullen let out a heavy breath, his main focus on getting her hair into the water-filled basin, "Just keep watch."

Fear's expression didn't change, much, while he continued to keep his eyes on them.

Cullen ignored the mabari for the time being, occupied with washing Peredura's hair. He didn't know how she—or any woman, for that matter—handled washing such a great amount of the stuff. The strands were so long, they easily filled the basin; luckily the water didn't spill out. The color grew darker, the subtle red highlights fading away into a deep, rich mahogany. It grew heavier, too, the water soaking into it and adding weight. He did his best, rubbing the soap over and through the tresses, fingers massaging against her scalp and along the length. When he'd gotten the mess out, as far as he could tell, he lifted her hair up out of the basin and poured more of the clean water down the strands to rinse them.

"There, I think that should do it."

Fear shifted his expression slightly, but other than that didn't comment.

Cullen didn't notice him, his hands full enough already. As he had lifted her up into a sitting position, her hair had draped itself wetly over his arm and down her back, soaking both the back of her tunic, and the sleeve of his. He made an exasperated sound while he grabbed for the towel. In doing so, he somehow knocked the side of the basin, and a fair amount of the water sloshed out onto the rug. He hissed again, scrambling back with her in his arms, trying to stay out of the wet. The last thing he needed was to soak her leggings. Or his. Either one would be bad enough, but both…

He very quickly, very firmly, broke off that train of thought.

All his harried clambering paid off, the two of them ending up safely away from the wet side of the rug. He now sat with his back to the hearth, the fire flickering warmly behind him, the towel firmly in hand, and Peredura tucked in securely on his lap. He took a peek at her face, wondering if all the jostling was having an effect on her, but she remained firmly unconscious. Thank the Maker for small favors. Yet the back of her tunic was still soaked, the clothing clinging to her skin and threatening to spread downwards into the waistband of her leggings. He pulled the shirttails out, hoping that would delay the inevitable, at least for a few moments longer.

"Well, no matter; we were going to change your tunic, weren't we?" he muttered, not expecting an answer, "I'll just finish with your hair, first."

He propped her against his chest, making sure she wouldn't slide or sway, so he could use both his hands. Then he very thoroughly, very deliberately, rubbed the towel through her hair. The single piece of fabric, thick and soft and almost as large as her, became soaked through by the time he was done. And her hair, though far less damp, became a tangle of snarls and twists. He studied the messed-up mass and felt defeated somehow, as if the simple act of kindness was getting out of hand, as if every little thing he did only made matters worse. "And I thought my hair was unmanageable."

Fear huffed a breath out of his nose but remained on the bed.

"Very well, let's get on with it. Now, where's your brush…?" He cast his eyes about the room, looking in every corner of every shelf, sweeping across the tops of tables and finally spying the brush. "Right; on the dresser. I suppose that makes sense. Let's get you into bed first, and with that clean tunic. Then we'll tackle those snarls."

The tunic was lying on the floor where he had left it, thankfully off of the rug where it had avoided getting soaked. He scooped Peredura up, the towel caught between her back and his arm, and walked on his knees over to the tunic. After snagging it with the fingers of one hand, he pushed himself to his feet and carried her to her bed, sweeping past the dresser on the way for the brush.

On some level, way deep down inside his very soul, he noted how featherlight she seemed to be in his arms. And how easily she fit against him. And how holding her—having her so near—simply felt… right.

Though his brain continued to focus on the difficulties of his current situation, this other part of him had a different agenda. He could have laid her down on her bed. He could have propped her up against the pillows. Instead he sat down on the side of the bed and, cradling her once more against his chest, he began working the tunic off her torso.

She was half-lying on his lap, her body limp, her breaths slow and easy. It wasn't too hard to pull on the wrists of her tunic, sliding her arms up and out of the sleeves. From there it was a simple matter to lift the loose-fitting garment up and over her head, the towel dropping to the bed beside them, and toss the soiled shirt to the side. He had picked up the fresh tunic and was turning his attention back to her when he realized something—something very wrong and very unexpected.

That subconscious level of his soul, that deeper part of him with its separate agenda, had kept him so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed until it was too late that Peredura wasn't wearing any, erm, well, any 'thing' beneath her shirt.

Cullen froze, a rare and uncharacteristic moment of indecision gripping his brain. He should move. He should finish what he had intended, place the fresh clothing over her person, and put her back to bed. But for the life of him he couldn't move, he didn't dare risk it. She was fast asleep, fully unconscious, completely unaware of what was happening—if he moved, he might wake her, and if she woke up right now to find herself half naked and sitting on his lap…

That expletive came to mind once more, but he didn't waste time on it. Instead he forced himself to assess the situation, and come up quickly with a new plan. She had remained asleep, lying against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin, arms limp and crossed on her lap, her back slightly curved as she hunched forwards. Truthfully, he couldn't see anything, not from this angle, except her back. And if he was careful, very, very careful, he could do what he intended to without, um, coming into contact with anything, er, too personal.

The problem was: he could see her back. He knew she had scars, she had described them before and even showed them the ones on her stomach when they were still in Haven. But these, the ones on her back, these she couldn't have done herself, even under duress and within the grips of opeigh addiction. These had been drawn—carved through her skin and into her flesh—solely by Vicici. His hand shook as his fingertips lightly brushed them, remembering what Varric had said that day, how the patterns of the lines and curves reminded him of another former elven slave from Tevinter. Cullen remembered the man—Fenris, he thought the name was, a companion of Hawke's. He scoffed, thinking of the rather eclectic group of adventurers Hawke had collected over his years in Kirkwall. Then he had to scoff again, supposing he and the Inquisition were collecting their own rather eclectic group.

Yet it wasn't only the scars that came to his attention. He could feel the skin beneath his fingers was both slick and sticky with old sweat, melted snow, dried blood, caked mud, and the Maker only knew what else. He closed his eyes for a moment; the poor girl had been knocked from her horse, tied up on the floor of an abandoned cabin, fallen down a ravine, left near comatose for more than a day… And he doubted she would have had a chance to get cleaned up since. No wonder she acted sometimes as if she felt her skin crawling. No wonder the thought of a simple bath filled her with such ecstasy.

Cullen opened his eyes with newfound determination. He could do this for her, he told himself. He could do this one more, small favor. After all, it wasn't as if anything sexual or inappropriate would occur. She was dirty and too sick to take care of herself; he was merely giving her a hand. Making up his mind, refusing to consider his motives any further, he carefully shifted her damp hair over one shoulder and, picking up the towel still soaked from drying her hair, he began to wipe off her back.

He was sure he could have done a better job, given fresh water and the bar of soap, but he knew even a little effort would make her feel so much better. As he drew the damp cloth across her skin, he took another look at the scars. They were almost mesmeric in their patterns, long and thick in some places, thin and curved in others. They seemed to mimic something important, something ancient, like long-forgotten magic from when the world was new. Like the ebb and flow of the tide. Like the rise and fall of the sun. Whatever these lines were meant to represent, it was something powerful and primal, something dangerous and not fully understood.

Something he wanted gone from her person. He began to imagine it, that every swipe of the towel erased those scars, that he was cleansing the stain of blood magic from her body, that when she awoke it would be to find herself not only rid of the marks, but rid of the memories. Maker, what he wouldn't sacrifice to be able to give her that!

Instead, he settled for giving her the feel of clean skin and a clean tunic. Finished with the towel, he tossed it towards the soiled rug and picked up the fresh shirt. He eased the soft material over her head and slid her arms down the sleeves. He draped the hem around her waist before he carefully leaned her away from his lap and onto the mattress. He hovered over her for a moment, his hazel eyes studying her features, and he found himself longing for her doe-like eyes to open and see him, to recognize he was near and she was protected, to confirm her faith in him. She continued to remain asleep, however, her expression relaxed and open and oh-so-very trusting.

His fingertips stroked a half-dried snarl off her cheek, reminding him of what he was supposed to be doing. "Right, your hair," he sighed. He gently rolled her onto her front, slid a pillow beneath her and turned her face to the side so she wouldn't suffocate. "How do you go about doing this?" he hummed, surveying the lengthy mass of curls and snarls. He picked up the brush in one hand, the hair in the other, and was nearly confounded yet again. "If I start at your scalp, all I'll be doing is pulling the snarls from there, down onto the snarls below. I should start at the ends, shouldn't I? Rather like working burs out of a horse's tail. I wonder," he continued, knowing she wasn't going to reply any time soon, but feeling the need to speak calmly just in case she did wake up, "If that's the reason they call that style a ponytail? You know, the way you like to wear your hair, pulled back and tied with a bit of something. It does rather resemble a horse's tail. Not that, er, I'm saying your hair—or anything about you—reminds me of a horse. Just that, oh," he shook his head at himself, realizing he was getting flustered over something awkward he said that nobody heard.

He cleared his throat and started talking about the weather, something safe and mild and decidedly not-awkward. He had reached the point where he could pull the brush down the full length of her hair, before he realized something. His hand paused, the brush falling to the pillow, as his words ground to a halt in the face of what he had done—earlier when he was cleaning the grime off of her, he had washed her front as well as her back. He gave a guilty swallow and looked up at Fear. The mabari was unconcerned; though he had shifted around to keep them in view, he remained lying and panting and waiting for something to happen. Cullen felt his face practically combust, so ashamed he had done what he had done. Yet he could honestly admit, nothing untoward had entered his mind while he'd done it. He had been thinking of her scars, of how wonderful it would be if he could wipe those away along with the stale sweat and grime, and hadn't taken any notice of her feminine form. That wasn't to say he couldn't remember them now, those parts of her body, and the way they reacted to his touch…

He gave another guilty swallow. "Andraste's bridal veil," he whispered, turning her over and settling her gently against her pillows, "But you tempt me, woman." And she did. She tempted him as no desire demon ever had, not even as much as the memory of those two desire demons from Kinloch. Yet she was no desire demon. She was a woman, flesh and blood and alive. And what he felt towards her—what emotions she stirred within his being—was not sinful or depraved or corrupt.

It was something new.

All his life, all he had ever wanted or desired had been to be a Templar. And he'd had that, for a time. Yet that dream was over, forever removed from his reach, the door firmly closed on that future. He could easily let himself think the Maker was punishing him for some sin or another, taking away everything that he ever wanted because he had been deemed unworthy, but that wasn't true. He may no longer be a Templar, but he continued to serve the Maker. And, as impossible as it seemed, he was being rewarded. With a relationship. With a chance to dream a new dream. With Peredura.

"I never wanted this," he admitted, "And I don't really know what to do with it, but I promise you, Pere," he leaned over to tap her lips lightly with his own, "I will do my best. For you. For us. For whatever may come."

She didn't answer. She didn't respond to his words. She didn't accept his vow. She remained fast asleep, unaware of what had just occurred.

A knock sounded at the door, and he gave another guilty start. Maker's breath, but this day was going to end up taking ten years off of his life! He glanced down at Peredura's face, but she was still unconscious. Feeling like he was getting away with some minor mischief, he spread her hair out across the pillows to finish drying and covered her thin frame with the thick comforter.

Fear shifted a little, mostly to allow him to adjust the covers. His movement brought himself to Cullen's attention. The Commander turned and fixed the mabari with his darkest, sternest glare. "Not a word of this," Cullen warned him, grabbing his coat to cover up his damp sleeve before making for the stairs, "To anyone. Especially Peredura."

The mabari tilted his head, but didn't comment. He liked Cullen. He liked the way Cullen talked, and the tender way Cullen cared for his partner. She was a thin girl, strong in spirit though weak physically, and needed a lot of protection, which he would provide of course, but it was nice to know she had others like Cullen to help protect her. And she was always calmer when Cullen was around, stronger, more confident. He liked the effect Cullen had on her; so much so that he sometimes wondered if he could have two partners, both Cullen and Peredura. That would be nice.

He listened to the man's heavy footsteps as he went down the stairs. Oh, how he longed to go with him, but further, all the way down those stairs to the outside where the sun was rising and the breeze had all those interesting smells and there was the courtyard where that squirrel like to forge for nuts. His paws flexed, thinking of how many times already he had chased that squirrel. He could catch it if he wanted, of course, but he always let the squirrel get away and climb the tree. Now, if he could learn to climb a tree, then he'd really have fun chasing the squirrel. He practically quivered, his front paws kneading the comforter…

He grew still, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be guarding his partner. He flicked his eyes over to her, but she was sleeping, her chest rising and falling in soft and steady breathes. Then the door below opened, and new sounds reached his ears, distracting him yet again. There were two voices, both male, both known to him. He shuddered with anticipation, listening to the sounds of two sets of feet coming up the steps, one shod in heavy boots—that would be Cullen—the other bare and lightweight. Their voices were muted but discernible, speaking as if not to wake anyone. When their heads came into view, he could no longer restrain himself. He stood up, jostling the bed, and let loose a very happy, very well-meant, very-good-morning bark!

"Fear! Be still!" Cullen hissed. "You'll wake Peredura."

"Don't scold him, Commander," Solas said in a much milder tone, "He was just saying hello. Besides, he doesn't know any better; he's only a dog."

"He's not a dog, he's a mabari. A far more intelligent and intuitive animal than a mere dog. In fact, I'd say he's more intelligent than some humans I know. Or, er," he stammered, realizing Solas wasn't human, "Or elves. Oh! Or, um," he stammered again, thinking he might have insulted the man, "That is, not that you, I mean, present company excluded, I just meant…"

"I think I understand," Solas graciously let him off the hook. He turned to the mabari next and inclined his head, "And I apologize to you. I meant no offense."

Fear gave him a happy couple of pants and sat down on his haunches. He liked Solas, too, though not quite in the same way as he liked Cullen. Solas was a sad man, a lonely man. Fear didn't know why the others couldn't see this as well as he could, but he often wished Solas could find someone to be his partner. Oh, well, maybe at another time, in another world…

"…Solas…?"

The voice was thin, wan, drifting from behind the hound to reach the men's ears.

"Good morning, Peredura," Solas answered, walking around Fear so she could see him. He sat down on the side of the bed and asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Fine," she answered automatically, shoving herself to sit further up on the pillows. She blinked her eyes as if trying to clear them, "Where's Cullen? I thought he was…"

"I'm right here," Cullen came up on her other side, though he remained standing. He crossed his arms and looked down on her a bit sternly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"No, what happened?" she asked.

"What happened?" Solas echoed.

"She fainted," he tattled on her. "She was sick first thing this morning, and when she stood up afterwards, she fainted dead away."

"Is that so?" Solas looked from the Commander to the Inquisitor, but she was studiously avoiding his gaze. "Any other symptoms you are having?"

"I'm fine, Solas," she tried to reassure him, "Really. I just need to get up and start moving…"

"She'll only faint again," Cullen direly predicted.

"Why would you say that?" Solas turned his attention back to him.

"She's too weak."

"I'm not weak, I'm only tired…"

"She didn't eat anything at all yesterday," Cullen went on as if she hadn't spoken, "Other than the tea you brought, which I don't think counts."

"It wouldn't," Solas agreed.

"I'm not that hungry right now…"

"And before that, she was under the effects of the sleeping potion," this time it was Solas who continued over her feeble protests. "I suppose that means she hasn't eaten since the day of the incident."

"I'm right here," she practically growled, "Stop talking as if I can't answer for myself."

"Very well," Solas calmly turned back to her, business-like and solemn, "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

She felt her cheeks turn a little warm, "I… I'm not hungry… I just need to…"

"That's not what I asked," he interrupted her. "When was the last time you ate?"

She became very concerned over a piece of dust on the blanket, picking at it with her fingertips as she gave her bottom lip a brief chew. "The night before," she finally admitted in a very small voice. "I couldn't eat anything that morning, I was too nervous." Her cheeks were definitely growing hot. She must be bright red by now, and her emotions would be obvious to Solas. He had to know that she had a crush on Cullen, and if he figured that out, how long before he figured out that Cullen was feeling something towards her, and then he'd tell the others and their little secret would be out…

"Ah, yes, you're not used to riding, are you," Solas patted her hand, "And horses are a rather large sort of animal, quite intimidating to someone who's inexperienced."

"Yes, that's it," Cullen agreed a little too loudly, "Exactly."

"So that makes it, what, three, four days since you had any food? No wonder you're fainting. In fact, I'm surprised you were able to be sick at all this morning."

"It wasn't pleasant," she mumbled.

"It never is," Cullen leaned a shoulder against one of the bed posts.

"Well, that's the second order of business for this morning: have breakfast," Solas decreed.

"What's the first?" Cullen asked.

"Have some tea. I've been thinking," he began, rummaging in a pack he'd brought, pulling out a small leather pouch, "About your symptoms from the last time, when you'd first gotten the mark. Though we didn't know it at the time, you were suffering through opeigh withdrawal that first week we met, weren't you?"

She nodded.

"How much of that illness was from the mark, and how much from your withdrawal, do you know?"

Her teeth returned to gnawing on that poor bottom lip. Cullen felt the impulse to go to her side, to pull the lip free and wrap her in his arms and make her feel safe. But he couldn't, not with Solas there, so he had to stand back and will her to be strong, strong enough to tell Solas what she had barely had the courage to tell him yesterday.

She didn't disappoint him. "I do know." Once again her voice was small, like that of a child, but she made herself lift her chin and look Solas directly in the eyes. "Vicici would put me through withdrawal, sometimes as a punishment, sometimes to see what it would do to me, sometimes just because he was bored. The worst of it is over, I think; maybe I slept through that part, or it was milder because I'd only had a single dose."

"Or perhaps because you're in better health," Solas nodded. "You're no longer the malnourished slave kept in a cage, remember. But go on. What are these symptoms?"

When she realized Solas wasn't upset or disgusted over the latest dark secret from her past, she grew a little more bold. "First I… I get a feeling like there are bugs crawling all over my skin. And sometimes I have chills, and can't stop shaking. And I tear up. A lot. I can't control that. I might get a sore throat. Sweating, too."

"I see," he nodded again, encouragingly, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. "Hmm, there doesn't seem to be any abnormal sweating or uncontrolled shaking going on right now. Any of these other symptoms? No? Then I concur; you are safely past that stage of your withdrawal. But what comes next? The upset stomach, I assume."

It was her turn to nod. "Yes, as soon as I start moving around. It gets better during the day, so long as I can stay moving and distract myself from noticing it."

"Anything else?" he pressed. When it looked like she didn't want to answer, he added, "I have some medicinal herbs here that I think might help, but I won't know which ones to use until you tell me what you're experiencing. Everything you're experiencing. Please, Peredura," he took her hand in his, "There's no reason for you to suffer."

It was as if he'd known exactly what she was feeling, the guilt over the things she'd done in her past, her secret need to pay penance for her willing addiction to opeigh. The way he absolved her, so quickly and so simply, sliced through all her barriers to touch her soul. She teared up, though not from her withdrawal, and pulled her hand free of his, trying to cover her face and her shame.

The next moment, Cullen was there, his strong arms around her, his steady heartbeat in her ear. She clung to him, needing his support as she struggled to accept the forgiveness.

"I seem to have struck a nerve," Solas commented softly.

"It's alright," Cullen said over the top of her head, to both of them. "This is a difficult time, but we're getting through it. It'll just take a moment…"

It was hard—it was so very hard—letting go of the guilt. She carried years of it, heavy and gross on her shoulders, like a mantle of disgust and vileness. But she was learning—she was discovering—that she could slide out from beneath it. That she could leave it behind her, move on from it, and live a new life without the ugliness hanging over her head every day. That she could be exonerated. "I hurt…" she half moaned, half sniffed, one deep brown eye peeking out from between Cullen's arm and her overgrown bangs. "Ache… all over… even my hair hurts!"

"Your hair hurts," Solas repeated, not quite believing her. He wisely ignored her emotional storm and focused on those matters he could help her with, knowing Cullen was there to deal with the rest.

"I… yes… everywhere," she let go with one hand to touch her scalp, a little confused to find the locks damp and soft, as if recently washed and brushed. "Well… it seems like I do…"

"I understand," he hummed, pulling another pouch from his satchel. "Anything else? No? Are you sure?"

She sniffed again and nodded, pushing herself back from Cullen. "Just the upset stomach and the aches. Last time it took more than a week before they stopped bothering me."

"Well, let's see if we can shorten that a bit." He gave her shoulder a gentle pat and moved away from the bed.

She watched Solas for a moment, puttering around the kettle he had left there yesterday, humming to himself while he brewed the tea. It was easier, it was so much easier, to occupy herself with his actions than to think about… her hair being washed and brushed… and she was wearing her favorite tunic… not the one she had on when the incident occurred… someone had changed it for her… someone had cleaned her up and changed her clothes and… the only who had been with her to do such a deed was… but, Maker, he wouldn't have… would he…?

Unwillingly, like a moth drawn to the flame, her eyes lifted up to Cullen's face.

He'd been watching her, keeping an eye on her expressions, staying on the alert for any more changes in her emotional state. She appeared stable, for the most part, but he knew from personal experience that could change at any moment. His study was so intense, he could almost hear the thoughts in her head: the fingers toying with a lock of her hair, the glance down at her tunic, the shift of a shoulder feeling the cleanliness of her skin. When she looked up at him, when she lifted those vulnerable brown eyes to his, he knew she knew what he had done. Yet his actions had not been those of a lecher, merely a kind act for someone who was unable to take care of herself. And he refused to feel guilty for doing something nice.

Her eyes dropped, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink.

He wanted to laugh, and only part out of relief. She wasn't upset with him. Yes, she knew what he had done, the privileges he had taken, all that he had seen, but she wasn't angry or defensive. Instead she was flustered, embarrassed, grateful, perhaps even a little flattered, and oh-so-very cute. "You know something," he said softly, for her ears only, "You are very pretty when you blush."

The color deepened.

Peredura wanted to hit him. Or scream at him. Or do something—anything—other than sit there and let her cheeks spontaneously combust. She knew what he had done, all of it, from her hair to her tunic to her skin. And she knew he knew she knew… Oh, Blessed Andraste, what was she supposed to do? She couldn't say anything, not with Solas in the room. She didn't think she could say anything if they were alone, either. And every time she looked at him, every time she glanced up to see if he felt any remorse for his actions, any embarrassment, anything, he simply gave her that smirk.

"You've done the same for me." His words were just as gentle as before.

"Yes, but…" …but he didn't have breasts—she couldn't finish the sentence aloud. As impossible as it was to believe it could happen, her cheeks grew even hotter. She tried one last time to look at him, but couldn't lift her eyes further than his lips, seeing that damnable, lovable, incorrigible smirk.

Solas had paused a moment to watch the two of them, feeling badly that he was observing such a private exchange. He could tell Peredura and Cullen had feelings for each other, and was fairly sure they were figuring out the same. The mess left on the rug gave mute testimony to how far Cullen would go for her. Yet the thought saddened him; interracial relationships were hard enough, but theirs…? He pushed aside any dark forebodings of the future and cleared his throat as he returned to the bed. "Here you go, Peredura. Drink it all down, you'll feel better after a few minutes."

She took the cup eagerly, if only to avoid looking at and thinking of Cullen, and managed a healthy swallow before the taste hit her. She nearly spit it all back out, but it was already past her throat and heading towards her stomach. She all but shoved the cup away, making Cullen grab for it before she could dump out the rest of the contents.

"Ugh!" she gasped, wiping her lips off on the back of her hand, far more animated than she had been all morning. "That's disgusting!"

"It's better than the tea I normally brew," Solas sniffed.

Cullen also sniffed, at the contents of the cup. "Anise?"

"Yes. I find it masks the taste of the other herbs, some of which can be quite bitter."

"I'd rather taste the herbs," Peredura pouted, "That… anise… whatever it is, reminds of these little black, chewy candies in Tevinter. They're horrible." She shuddered.

"Yes, well, unfortunately," Solas took the cup from Cullen and returned it to Peredura, "Anise also is one of the ingredients that helps calm upset stomachs. So drink up, every drop, young lady. No arguments."

She made a face, feeling like what she had already swallowed was about to come back up, but brought the cup to her lips and finished it in one go. Another sound of disgust escaped her, a hand covering her mouth, but the tea stayed down.

"Excellent," Solas approved.

Peredura resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"I am sorry about the taste," he allowed, "I actually like the flavor of anise. But I do understand, it's not for everyone. I've made a full kettle," he continued, talking now to Cullen, "But that should last through the morning. She'll only need a cup at a time, whenever she feels queasy or achy."

"I understand," he nodded. "If I should need to brew more?"

"Like before. Three spoons. Steep for five minutes. I'll have the servants bring up something a little more substantial for her breakfast," he picked up his satchel, fully determined to leave as quickly as possible and let the two of them have their privacy. No doubt she had also figured out what Cullen had done for her, as her hair was still damp and the brush was lying forgotten and half-buried beneath a pillow. Though it was good to see color on her cheeks, the blushing was getting a bit out of hand. "You'll need lots of nutrients to get your strength back quickly. And you'll want to. Get your strength back, that is. I just found out from Josephine; we leave for Halamshiral first thing next week."

"We?" she repeated, her voice overflowing with hope, "Are you coming with us?"

"I am," he smiled slightly, a little mischievously. "In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen the politics of the powerful many times, and it's always the same, no matter the characters or the location. But a chance to see the power, the intrigue, the danger, and the sex first hand? I wouldn't miss it!"

Neither of them knew quite how to respond to that.

"Well, er," Cullen attempted, "I'm glad at least one person will be enjoying himself."

"Quite," he agreed. "Now, if you'll excuse me. There are one or two matters I should attend to before we leave."

Fear watched Solas walk towards the top of the stairs, a tiny whine whimpering in his chest. Oh, how he longed to follow, but he had been ordered to guard his partner…

"Er, Solas, one more thing," Cullen began walking towards the foot of the bed. The elven apostate paused and looked up, curious, and found Cullen setting a hand on the hound's head. "If you could take Fear with you, let him outside, perhaps bring him to Krem for more training. I would have one of my men do it, whoever brings the morning's reports, but since you're here…"

"Of course," he quickly agreed. "I still need to make it up to him, my earlier misassumption of his intelligence. If you would like to come with me, Ser Fear, I believe we can find Krem in the tavern."

Fear started to move, knowing there was food in the tavern and his stomach was empty, but he felt slightly conflicted. His partner was still weak, sick, he shouldn't leave her just because he was hungry. He looked at her, sitting up against the pillows, but her cheeks were rosy and she was smiling, nodding for him to go. He gave her an encouraging bark, licked her face so she would know he cared for her, and bounded from the bed so hard he left it shaking. His oversized paws lost traction on the corner of the rug as he turned for the stairs, his nails having to dig deep into the fabric and bunch it into a large pile before he could find purchase. Then he was around Solas and almost tumbling down the steps ahead of him.

Peredura listened to Solas' indulgent voice as he talked to Fear, asking him to wait at least until he opened the door before racing onward.

Cullen had also been listening. He chuckled softly before commenting, "He is still a puppy."

"One who's being taught bad habits," Peredura groused, sitting up a little higher against the pillows. She felt a lot stronger—and a lot safer—having something to scold him about. "You gave him permission to be up on the bed, didn't you?"

It was more an accusation than a question. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, standing at attention, and defended himself. "I did. I believe you once said, during my, er, recovery, that I was calmer whenever Fear was near. I thought, he might do the same for you. Not that you've been out of your head with fevers or delirium, but you have been in need of comfort."

"Yes, well, fine," there he was, being nice to her, thinking of her needs. Damn, she couldn't argue with that. "But last time, it took me a week to retrain him to stay off my bed. I expect you to handle that this time. I'll be too busy recuperating."

He looked at her, not out of anger or fear or even desire. He simply looked at her to see her, to observe and digest and discern every detail. She looked back at him, and her affected anger dissipated beneath the return of her blush.

Maker, how he loved the way she blushed. He returned to her side, sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned over her, one arm bracing itself on her other side. She was trapped, between him and the pillows, and could only sit there and feel her heart begin to race as he came even closer.

The touch of his lips was light and warm, soft and firm. He didn't pressure for the kiss to deepen, merely holding himself there, allowing her to savor his presence. When he pulled back, one hand was cupping her face, the thumb stroking her cheek. His hazel eyes warmed within her soft brown.

"I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."


	21. Wagging Tongues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say one little thing—oops.  
> I tried to do research before starting this story, to find out if Tevene was the language spoken in Tevinter, and as far as I could tell back then, it was. But recently I've discovered I'm wrong; Common is spoken in Tevinter, and Tevene is saved for important occasions like swearing and battle cries.  
> Kaffas!  
> Oh, well, so I'm slightly off cannon. Too late to change it now. I'll just forge ahead and hope no one's as picky as I am :'D

"I was thinking you might enjoy a reprieve," Cassandra explained as she and Cullen climbed the stairs to Peredura's main bedchamber. "You've been cooped up with the Inquisitor for days. No doubt there are matters you've been putting off seeing to, until you have been able to return to your office."

"Well, now that you mention it," he rubbed at the back of his neck, "There are some reports I need to write. And there's a few new training exercises I've been meaning to have implemented. I'll need to talk with my captains about that. Then there's the escort…"

"What escort?" Peredura interrupted as they reached the top landing. She was sitting up in her bed, pillows propped behind her and the covers straightened and tucked in around her warmly. Her hair was freshly brushed, her cheeks faintly tinted pink, and her hands folded calmly on her lap. There was a tray off to the side of the bed, a steaming cup of tea half-finished and a large plate of eggs and sausages and rolls hardly touched. Cassandra shot a glance at her as soon as she came into view, but turned away just as quickly to avoid making eye contact. The act did not go unnoticed by Peredura, and she felt a little hurt by the apparent, and undeserved, snub.

"Your escort for the Inquisition's trip to Halamshiral," he answered as if it should have been obvious, completely oblivious to whatever dynamic was occurring between the two women. "We'll need to present a strong show of force, but not make ourselves look like an invading army, and yet still be suitable for escorting the leader of the Inquisition…"

"Sorry I asked," she muttered.

"It is distasteful, playing politics," he thought he was agreeing with her, "Especially 'The Game,' as Orlesians like to call it. I should consult with Josephine about this, and the sooner it's settled, the sooner I won't have to worry about it any longer."

"There you are," Cassandra lifted her chin as she spoke, as if declaring a divine decree. "Go and speak with Josephine; I believe you will find her in her office. Then go and see to any other matters that need your attention. I shall stay with Peredura for the day."

Cullen looked torn for a moment. His usual habit if throwing himself into his work was strong and deeply ingrained, but he didn't want to leave Peredura if she should need him. He hesitated, and his whole body swayed between the stairs and the bed.

"I'll be fine, Commander," Peredura made the decision for him, knowing there was no reason he himself had to be the one to stay with her, knowing there was no debt he needed to repay. Yes, she had been able to spend three whole days—and nights—cooped up in this room with him while he struggled through his withdrawal. But she hadn't had a choice; no one else had known what he was going through. This time around, Cullen had a large pool of support to draw from; nearly everyone in the Inner Circle—as Peredura liked to think of her closest friends—knew of her past addiction and current symptoms. At the very least, they knew she had been drugged by a rogue mage, and was struggling to recover from the drug. She didn't have to rely on Cullen alone to help her through this. Besides, "The worst of my symptoms are over. It's only a matter of regaining my strength, which I could probably do on my own; I don't need my hand held for this part." Adversely, she held out her hand to him; in two steps he had taken it. "Go and see to your work, Commander. I don't want anything left unfinished before we have to leave for the Winter Palace. I'll need the entirety of your focus during our mission there, not distracted by something left behind back here in Skyhold."

Cullen straightened his shoulders and snapped his heels together, setting a stern and serious expression on his face. Then he made a very stiff and very formal bow over her hand, "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

Peredura's heart did a funny little flip-flop as he spoke those words. His voice held far less innuendo and heat than it had the day before when he spoke those exact same words, but there was enough hidden meaning and remembered emotions to make the tint on her cheeks darken. Especially when his lips brushed so lightly across the back of her hand that it tickled.

It seemed he was thoroughly enjoying throwing himself into the challenge, the one of sharing these secret kisses and whispered endearments and, er, hand-holding. And right in front of Cassandra!

Who, thankfully, remained completely unaware of what had just transpired.

"See to it that she finishes her tea," Cullen spoke to Cassandra as he pulled away, all business and formal and typical-Cullen-y, "And after that, her plate, every last crumb. The Inquisitor needs to regain her strength."

"Of course," she acceded.

"She's also to have a cup of tea every couple of hours, whenever she starts to feel, er, uncomfortable. You'll have to keep an eye on her, watch for signs of distress or upset stomach. She won't admit to it when she's feeling ill; she doesn't like taking her medicine. So you'll have to make that decision for her." He bent over to sweep a stack of reports off of the couch and into his arms.

"I will," she promised.

"Well, then," he looked around the room, but there really was nothing keeping him there, other than his concern for Peredura. But she was in good hands; he knew the two women loved each other like sisters. "I shall return this evening, after supper, and take the night shift. Seeker. Inquisitor." He inclined his head to both of them, turned smartly on his heel, and headed for the stairs.

The two women watched Cullen leave, his steps crisp and purposeful, his demeanor precise and military-like. Fear lifted his head and watched, too, but made no actions like he wanted to follow Cullen. He had already been outside that morning, and the fire was nice and warm, and the hearthrug freshly cleaned and no longer smelling right. He let Cullen go without him, rolled over onto his back—giving it a few wiggles to scratch his spine and rub his scent into the rug—and drifted back off to sleep.

"You should drink your tea," Cassandra started, almost before the bedchamber door had closed behind Cullen. She walked over to the fire, her arms crossed, her back to Peredura, her dark eyes and dark hair reflecting her dark mood.

Peredura sighed, knowing there was something going on between them, something she didn't understand, something that was completely beyond her ability to discern. She did pick up the cup, however, and took a healthy sip of the contents. Despite Cullen's dire assessment of her thoughts and feelings about the tea, she knew she had to drink it in order to recover. And she wanted to recover, as quickly as possible. She took a second sip as she studied Cassandra's back, wondering how to begin to patch things up between them if she didn't know what was wrong.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" she decided to begin with something simple and courteous. "Cullen says I'm to eat this whole plate, but it's far too much for just me, and I'd hate to see so much food go to waste. Would you like some?"

"I… er… no… um, thank you… I've already eaten."

Peredura's eyes stared hard at her back, wishing she'd turn around. She set aside the cup, not quite finished, but felt her stomach was settled enough for her to risk it. She picked up a roll, the soft dough wrapped around sweet spices and chopped nuts and smothered with warm icing. Possibly not the best choice, but all that deliciousness was too hard to resist. She picked off a piece and set it in her mouth, taking a moment to suck the extra icing off her fingers. She might have made a small humming noise, she wasn't sure, but in the next moment there was a scrambling of toenails on the floor, a startled grunt of surprise from Cassandra, followed by a very eager pair of brown eyes staring at her from the side of her bed. Peredura laughed, just a little bit, "I thought you'd already had your breakfast, Fear."

There was a similar laugh coming from Cassandra, just a little bit, as she turned to follow the exuberant puppy. "I suppose it's not surprising if he is still hungry; he is a growing boy, he needs plenty of nutrition. But I wouldn't give him any of your food. The rolls are too sweet. The sausages are too spicy…"

"How about some of the egg?" Peredura asked. Truthfully, the eggs were probably the best thing for her, cooked with very little seasoning that would upset her stomach, unlike the sausages, and far lighter than the sweet rolls. But Fear's eyes were staring at her so intently, as if he could by some sort of mental thought make her give him some of her food.

"If you'd like, I suppose they wouldn't hurt him. But I'm sure he'd much rather have a nice, rare, juicy steak."

Fear turned his attention on Cassandra, as if she held that very steak in her hands. Seeing that she didn't have the tasty morsel, he whined a bit and turned back to his partner. One paw lifted up, trying to reach the top of the bed, his whole body shaking with the intention of jumping onto the mattress—as soon as he could reasonably assume that she had given him permission.

"No, Fear," she sighed, almost as disappointed as he, "I better not. At least, not until after I've eaten all I can." She leaned over and whispered to him, "But I'll save you a sausage, alright?"

Cassandra had no difficulty hearing the exchange, but she rolled her eyes indulgently and pretended not to have heard. "Go lie down, Fear, and let your partner finish her breakfast."

Fear gave a slightly miffed sort of huff, but he couldn't argue with the two women. He dropped his paw, gave Peredura one final, pitifully reproachful look, and padded softly back to the hearthrug.

"He's becoming spoiled," Cassandra hummed.

"That's Cullen's fault," Peredura quickly deflected the blame. She set aside the roll, as it was sitting a little too heavy in her stomach, and started poking at her eggs. "He's the one who allowed Fear up on the bed the other night. Just to keep me company, he said, but now Fear wants up here every night. I wish he hadn't done it," she scooped a small bite into her mouth, chewing the soft and fluffy eggs before swallowing. "I mean, I know why he did it, for my comfort, I did the same for him, but the last time Fear was allowed on the bed, it took me a week to retrain him." She suddenly realized what she had said, and sputtered a moment, grabbing her cup to hide her face. "I mean, what I said, about comfort, I just meant, erm…"

"I know," Cassandra said softly. "That's why I asked the Commander to sit with you these first few days, until you had recovered enough to take care of yourself. I know you were the one who helped him through his withdrawal from lyrium. And I know why you did so—because you had gone through it yourself, at Haven, right after the explosion at the Conclave." She settled herself on the edge of the bed, but she didn't relax. "That's why I wanted him to be here for you, not only so he could repay his debt," she finally looked Peredura in the eyes, "But because he was better suited than I for making decisions on your behalf."

At last she figured it out. "That's why you're so uncomfortable around me," she nearly exclaimed, almost tipping her cup as she hastily set it back on the tray. "You're still blaming yourself for that whole sleeping potion business."

She lifted her chin, as if daring Peredura to absolve her. "It was my decision, my ignorance, that left you being tortured in that unending nightmare."

"Oh, Cassandra," she leaned forward, taking hold of the older woman's hand, "I know we haven't talked about it. I mean, when I was still asleep, I spoke with Solas about it, and he said he'd tell you how I felt. And later, after waking up, Cullen told me how you were still feeling, and I told him, too, that I don't blame you, but…" she made a funny sort of face, "I suppose you and I haven't talked about it. The two of us. Face-to-face. So, here goes," she leaned in a little closer and, just as Solas had freed her of any guilt over her own past actions, she showed Cassandra the same mercy. "I don't blame you. You made the best decision you could under the circumstances. There was no way you or anyone could have known what that sleeping potion would have done to me. Maybe it was because of the opeigh. Or maybe Stitches mixed the potion too strong, as it had been meant for Cullen, not me. Who knows," she shrugged it aside, "But my getting trapped in a nightmare was not your fault. It happened. It was ugly. But it's over now and I do not blame you." She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around her. "Please don't beat yourself up over this any more. It hurts me, to see you hurt, because I love you, Cassandra. I mean, not like, well, not like that. But I love confiding in you, because I know I can trust you and tell you anything. And when I need help with a problem, I know you're there for me. I love you, Cassandra, like what I imagine a big sister would be like."

Cassandra hesitated, but only for a moment. She returned the hug, smiling a little over Peredura's shoulder where no one could see. "I love you, too," she agreed, "Like the little sister I never had."

"Good," Peredura sniffed, not wanting her to see her cry, "So, no more blaming yourself?"

She posed it as a question, but Cassandra knew it was an order, one she gladly obeyed. "No more blaming myself. Now," she leaned back and brushed a strand of hair back from Peredura's face. She almost tucked it behind her hear, then thought better of it, knowing how Peredura hated her scars showing, especially her ears and all those particular scars revealed about her. Instead she shifted the length over Peredura's shoulder and continued, "Finish your breakfast. You need to regain your strength, if we're to leave for Halamshiral by the end of the week."

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," she made a face, but picked up the platter of eggs and added half a sausage. "I'll be riding in a carriage, won't I?"

"We are taking along a carriage, yes," Cassandra watched her take a bite, "For those of us who are unable to ride, or simply never learned." She refused to speak Varric's name, still angry with him after all he'd done… "But you will have to ride a horse, for at least part of the trip."

Peredura lifted stricken eyes up to her, a forkful of eggs halfway between her plate and her mouth. "I'll be on horseback?"

"At the beginning, just for the first few miles as we leave Skyhold," Cassandra took hold of her hand and helped the fork reach her mouth. "Your troops will want to see you, fully recovered and sitting atop your mount. It will be good for their morale. Also, you'll have to ride horseback as we enter Halamshiral, in full dress uniform. Appearances are everything when playing 'The Game'."

Peredura finished her bite and swallowed. "You sounded like Cullen just then. I thought you'd enjoy coming along, dancing at a ball, all those eligible young noblemen and so forth. Aren't you royalty yourself?"

Cassandra made a long-suffering sound of disgust. "I am seventy-eighth in line for the throne; that hardly makes me royalty."

"But you are in line for it," Peredura persisted, picking at the roll again. It simply was too tempting.

Cassandra took the roll from her hands. "Still, the only reason I agreed to come with is, well," she paused to smile again, this time where Peredura could see, "My little sister asked me to."

Peredura smiled back, knowing in that moment that all was well between them. "Well, if you can come along with us and suffer through a long and distasteful night of music and dancing and politics," she took another bite of eggs as the roll was firmly out of reach, and spoke very impolitely around the food, "I suppose I can ride a horse for a couple of miles. For the troops, of course."

"That is good," she nodded in approval. "Tongues have already begun to wag, speculating on what really happened that night, on your condition, even on why the Commander has been sequestered with you for so long."

"There's gossip already?" she gulped, forcing the eggs past a throat constricting with apprehension, "About… Commander Cullen? And me?" She'd had enough when people were spreading unfounded rumors about her and Dorian, but her and Cullen…

"Yes," Cassandra cut off a small bite of sausage for her to try, "The men have been wondering if there's some secret plan being hatched, a massive attack against Corypheus perhaps. Or if the mage that attacked you has been found, and is being tortured for information in a hidden location here at Skyhold, and the Commander and you are spending all night discussing this information." She looked up to hand over the piece of sausage, saw the color draining from Peredura's face, and quickly tried to put her mind at rest. "That is one of the more fanciful rumors, and one that is not taken seriously, I assure you."

"Oh! Er, well, good, then…" Peredura blinked, taking the bite, relieved that she didn't have to fear anyone spreading stories about her and Cullen.

And just as quickly, Cassandra crushed that relief. "The most common rumor is that the two of you are having a private tryst." She laughed, "Not quite as ridiculous, but a complete fabrication, nonetheless. Peredura! Are you alright?"

Peredura was choking on the piece of sausage. She had been chewing it, but as Cassandra revealed the latest rumor of her and Cullen, her fears seemed to expound tenfold. Her mouth had gone lax, forgetting to chew, and her throat had reflexively swallowed. Unfortunately the half-chewed sausage was not yet ready to be swallowed, and had gotten lodged in her throat. She coughed and spat, her air wheezing around the stubborn morsel, until Cassandra's heavy hand slapped her once—just once—smartly on her back.

Peredura gave one final cough, spitting the chunk out into one hand while the other tried to fend Cassandra off. "I'm alright. I'm alright. It's… just spicier than I anticipated."

"Hm, perhaps the sausage wasn't a good choice for you, not yet, anyway," Cassandra agreed, completely missing the true source of the awkward moment. She handed back the sweet roll. "Here. At least this is staying down. Do you think," she tilted her head slightly, picking up the other half of the sausage, "Do you think Fear would allow me to feed him? Without taking off my hand, I mean?"

Peredura smiled, glad for the change in subject, and the easy excuse for her, um, discomfort. She nodded, watching as Cassandra stood to give the meat to the hound, and the antics of said hound as he tried to jump up to knock it out of her hand. With her belly full and her symptoms eased for the moment, she was content to sit there and watch the funny scene play out to its inevitable conclusion.

Cassandra grunted as she regained her feet, dusting off her backside and glaring—somewhat tolerantly—at the mabari. "You are an overly enthusiastic puppy! And very ill-mannered."

Fear finished gulping down the sausage and looked up at her, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes bright and shining, stating quite plainly that she was the fool if she thought he could act any differently.

* * *

Cullen was standing at the window, using the daylight to read the report in his hand. It was early afternoon, he had left Peredura and Cassandra only a few hours ago, but it was getting harder and harder for him to focus on work. He found his thoughts constantly returning to that courageous young woman with her long brown hair and soft, doe-like eyes. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and gave himself a mental slap upside the back of his head. He had been spending quite a lot of time with her, and they did have some sort of feelings towards each other, so it was quite natural for him to be thinking of her every now and again.

But NOT continually.

The door opened and he quickly brought his hand away, turning to face the next round of reports or recruits or…

"Ah! Excellent, you got my message."

"Yes, I did," Dorian drawled, looking around the dark and dusty office, at the desk overflowing with stacks of paperwork, at the bookshelf stuffed randomly with binders and sheafs of papers, at the disused chair behind the desk, and the overused practice dummy pricked like a pincushion with throwing daggers. "Though I honestly have no idea why you would wish to speak with me. And privately, too. My, my, Commander, whatever would people say?"

Cullen's face darkened. "They can say whatever they bloody well like!" he groused. "I have very little patience for rumors or gossip. But I do need to speak with you." He saw the stricken expression on Dorian's face and immediately he curbed his anger. Belatedly he remembered something Peredura had said about Dorian, and though he hadn't given it much thought at the time, he was beginning to reconsider. Right at that moment, with Dorian's face turning pale beneath his tanned skin, and the implied innuendo within his last statement, he began to consider she might be right about Dorian. At the very least, the man was an incorrigible flirt. But he needed Dorian's help—desperately needed Dorian's help—so he swallowed his irritation and started again. "Excuse me, Altus Pavus, but these past few days have been tiring. Please, allow me to start this conversation over. Would you care to sit down?"

Dorian had been nervous over the past few days, ever since he recognized Peredura. He had no idea what she remembered of him, or what she had told whom, and the fear and dread hung over his head like the sharpened blade of the headman's axe. Getting Cullen's message to meet with him privately, that afternoon, in his office… well, let's just say it got Dorian's heart pumping, and not in a good or pleasurable way. Still, the missive came as a request, not an order, and without an armed escort or chains, so he supposed he was still alright.

Yet Cullen's insistence on privacy, and his gruffer than normal attitude, did little to ease Dorian's nerves. He had to use all his bravado to cover his weakness, and though he was quickly running out of spunk in the face of Cullen's irritation, he lost it even faster when the Commander turned, well, gentlemanly. Cullen even used his correct title. "I, er, yes, I suppose, thank you," he glanced around for a spare chair, found one in a dusty corner, and quickly turned to retrieve it.

"Well, I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here. Oh, would you care for anything? A refreshment, perhaps? I have some brandy over here on the table."

"I, er, no, well, if you insist," Dorian spoke to his back. He had tried to decline, remembering the last time alcohol passed his lips, he'd blacked out only to wake up in Bull's bed. Not exactly dis-favorable, but he honestly didn't want to do the same with Cullen, especially knowing how Peredura felt about him.

The thought of her brought to mind his own secrets, his own need for privacy, and his bravado fled completely as Cullen passed him a glass of the golden bane. "To the Inquisitor!"

"To the Inquisitor," Dorian's salute was lackluster, automatic, as he raised the glass and took a sip. He was so distraught, he couldn't even notice the quality of the brandy.

"It's Antivan," Cullen explained, holding the glass up to the sunlight, admiring the deep amber color. "I suppose it's not as good as what you're used to back home in Tevinter, but I've been assured it's quite good. I don't drink much myself, not very often, but every now and then I like to sample a drop." He gave a little chuckle as he walked around to the front of his desk, half-sitting, half-standing against it, relaxing his pose. He was still trying to put the nervous Dorian at ease, but he only seemed to make the mage more uncomfortable. Maker's breath, he swore to himself as a thought came to him; he hoped he wasn't making Dorian think he might be coming on to him… Maybe he shouldn't have offered the brandy.

"What?" Dorian blinked at him. "Oh, yes, quite, the brandy," he took another sip, one that turned into a healthy swallow, completely by habit, he told himself, purely for courage. "It is rather excellent. Antivan, you say? I should procure a bottle for myself and compare it with something from my native land. Perhaps you'd care to compare brandies with me?" Vishante kaffas, now he was the one sounding like he was hitting on Cullen. "I… that is… I mean, with cigars. There's nothing like sharing a glass of brandy and a couple of cigars, between two men, or more, depending on who all wants to join us."

Cullen definitely knew he shouldn't have offered the brandy. He watched as Dorian took another swallow, emptied his glass, and set it with a purpose on top of his desk. "Ah, yes, that sounds like fun. But perhaps another time. First, there's something I wish to discuss with you. Something personal. Something that concerns you. Something that should, well, something that would be best if it remained private."

"Oh!" Dorian felt the brandy burning in his gut, warm and welcoming and soon to be spreading through his body. Perversely, he felt a little relief over Cullen's latest statement, thinking this had more to do with Peredura's secret than his secret. "Oh, is that what this is about? You know I know, don't you. Who told you, Bull? No, doesn't matter, but he is the only one who guessed, since apparently I reacted the same why he did, when he found out. But not to worry, Commander," he leaned forward and patted Cullen's thigh, "Of course you would be concerned about my remaining silent, now that I've discovered what I've discovered. But I assure you, I know how to keep a secret. I will never tell a soul about it; it'll be our little secret."

Cullen gently removed Dorian's hand from his thigh. "I think you've gotten the wrong impression…" he could feel his cheeks wanting to burn with embarrassment. Maker's breath, but Peredura was right about Dorian. And worse, he had given Dorian the impression that he was interested in him. He unquestionably should not have led with the brandy. "I… er… wasn't going to ask you… I'd never… I'm not… I mean… not that there's anything wrong with… but I wouldn't…"

"What are you talking about?" Dorian queried, giving his head a slight shake.

"What are you talking about?" Cullen countered, not wanting to say THAT out loud. Especially if he was wrong after all, which was entirely possible, considering the awkward direction this conversation was taking.

"I asked you first," quipped Dorian. Damn, but that was good brandy, hitting his blood with the force of a tidal wave and loosening his tongue with lightning agility. Perhaps he shouldn't have skipped breakfast that morning. He leaned back in his chair and propped the ankle of one leg on top of the knee of the other.

Cullen took a deep breath. Damn, but this man could be infuriating. He didn't know what Peredura saw in him. Perhaps it was because he was a fellow Tevinter and reminded her of something nice about her homeland. Perhaps it was because he was energetic and entertaining and could make her laugh with such ease. It truly didn't matter, as he was—unfortunately—the only man Cullen could go to with his problem. "There's a favor I'd like to ask of you, something I hope I can trust you to remain discreet about."

Dorian batted his eyes, loving secrets, especially ones that distracted him from his own problems. And, as this apparently had nothing to do with his own problems, he was even more enthusiastic to learn what it was. "You have piqued my curiosity, dear Commander. Pray, continue. What is this little favor you would ask of me?"

"Your word, first," Cullen insisted, "That this will remain between us."

"Mum's the word," Dorian readily agreed. For added measure, he pretended to lock his lips closed and throw away the key.

Cullen resisted the impulse to throw the bottle of brandy out the window. "As you know," he propelled himself away from his desk, walking around the room, burning off his nervous energy, "We will be leaving for the Winter Palace by the end of the week."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Dorian moaned, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he continued, "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to an entire night of music and politics and sex and murder. The thought is making me sick to my…" Dorian had craned his neck, keeping him in sight the whole time while he traversed his office. He quickly saw the darkening look on the Commander's face and stopped his rant. "But that's not important right now. Do go on."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Thank you. As I was saying, we'll soon be leaving for the Winter Palace, to attend a ball. Peredura has, er, mentioned, in passing, that you are quite an accomplished dancer."

"I do know a few steps," he buffed his fingernails on the back of his coat in a lazy manner. "It's always a good idea to be able to impress the ladies, especially your hostess."

"Indeed," Cullen agreed. "I, er, I was wondering, I mean," he started pacing again, rubbing at the back of his neck where a nice little knot of tension was forming, "Undoubtedly, while we're there, at the ball, the situation may arise where I won't be able to decline a partner. And if I were to find myself out on the ballroom floor…"

"Cullen!" Dorian snapped upright, the brandy still loosening his tongue, "Are you saying you don't know how to dance?"

He stopped and gave him his best glare. "It's not part of the standard training of a templar, you know."

"And you're afraid you may be forced into a dance while we're at the ball?" Dorian pressed, his light blue eyes dancing themselves.

"Well," he hedged, "It might come up, as a part of The Game and all that, if I needed to dance with someone, or else the Inquisition's reputation would suffer, that sort of thing…"

"Oh, of course," Dorian nodded, though privately he knew—Cullen wanted to learn to dance to impress Peredura. The thought of the Inquisitor… his friend… a woman he thought of as human… who turned out to be an elven slave… one who knew that darkest of his secrets… He quickly swallowed and shoved away that train of thought. It was obvious—it had to be true—that she didn't remember him, or she would have told the others all about him—Cullen, at the very least. Yet Cullen didn't seem to know about his and Peredura's shared past, however brief and ugly. Therefore, his secret was still secret—he hoped.

And now he would get the chance to share a secret with Cullen. "So, you want me to teach you to dance, is that it?"

"Can you?" Cullen challenged.

Dorian laughed, a little affected, but the brandy was now helping him rather than betraying him. "It's not that easy, Commander. There's a time factor involved; it's hard to teach someone how to dance in only a few days. I know, I know, Peredura is fairly accomplished, but she's been practicing for weeks. We'd only have a few days before we leave, perhaps one or two opportunities along the way, whenever we can find the excuse to slip away and not arouse anyone's suspicions. Hate to give people the wrong idea; you know how tongues wag. Then also there's the matter of the student, how quickly you can learn and…"

"I believe you'll find me a quick study," he boasted, "And highly motivated. I want to make a good impression," he stopped suddenly, lifting his eyes up as if he'd said more than he should. "…On, er, on behalf of the Inquisition, I mean."

"But of course." Dorian knew exactly why Cullen wanted to learn how to dance, and it had nothing to do with dancing with old dowagers on behalf of the Inquisition. Oh, it was delightful, and fun, and challenging. And best of all, it would surprise Peredura.

His heart dropped again at the thought of her.

"What is it?" Cullen asked, fearing the worst when he saw Dorian's face grow concerned. "Can you, or can't you teach me in time?"

"What?" he looked up and refocused his eyes, blinking quickly. "Oh, that. Yes, of course I can. I think a nice little waltz should serve your purposes. It's slow, easy to learn, very methodical and pattern-like—perfect for a soldier."

Cullen felt like he might have just been insulted, but he let it slide for the time being. "Good. Fine. So you'll do it."

"I will. When would you like to start? Certainly not now. It's in the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in on us at any time, and you did say you wanted to keep this secret."

"I did," he agreed. "I do. My office is far too public a place during the day. Meet me here right after supper."

"I thought you said this place was too public."

"During the day," Cullen affirmed. "But if we were to meet in the evening, upstairs," he nodded to the ladder.

"There's an upstairs?" he turned to spy the ladder in the far corner, sounding surprised.

"My chambers," he cleared his throat. "It's, ah, sparsely furnished, not cluttered or anything, so it should serve our purposes, and it's private. Very few people know I have my bedchamber over my office. And no one will walk in on us up there."

"Sounds perfect," hummed Dorian. "Until supper, then." He pushed himself to his feet and made for the door, wanting some fresh air before the brandy could cloud his judgement any further.

"One more thing," Cullen stopped him with a hand on his arm. Dorian lifted dark, veiled eyes up to his, his expression neutral, his body still aimed for the door.

"Would you mind visiting Peredura this afternoon?"

Dorian tried hard not to let his racing pulse show. "Peredura? Is she recovering then? Well enough to receive visitors?"

"She is," he nodded. "I know, well, the two of you, that is, you're friends, close friends, nothing that way, of course, but still close," he cursed his clumsy tongue and decided to forge ahead. "And I know a visit from you would cheer her up, distract her, and she desperately needs a distraction. Please," he let his hand drop away, "It would mean so much to her."

Dorian swallowed. "Perhaps I will," he thought out loud. "She and I, well," he could barely admit that to himself, much less say it. "I suppose it would be good to go and see her. Talk with her for a bit. Find out what she… er… find out how she's doing, things like that."

"Good man," Cullen slapped him on the shoulder. "And I'll see you after, shall I?"

"Yes," Dorian agreed, sounding anything but enthused, "Yes, I'll see you after." He left the tower then, walking back outside into the sunlight and the breeze. Damn, what had he just gotten himself into? It wasn't the teaching Cullen to dance part that had him flustered—it was the seeing Peredura. Yet, perhaps, it would be best, to go there and confront her and find out once and for all: did he have a place within the Inquisition…

…or should he start running?

* * *

"…so he says, 'Funny, that's the name of my puss, too.' Get it? Get it?"

Peredura's sides were aching, her cheeks stinging from smiling and laughing so hard. She nearly doubled-over, clutching at her gut, eyes watering. "I get it…" she panted, "I… I get… it… no… no more… please…"

"Yes, perhaps you should cease and desist, Sera," Dorian's droll tones drifted up the stairs. "The ruckus you two are making carries. Anyone walking past her door can hear you two screeching and cackling."

Sera made a rude noise and flapped her hand at him, "Like just anyone would pass by her door; it's at the top of a bloody tower, i'n't it?"

"I was passing by," he pointed out. "With all the noise, one would think you're torturing the poor girl or something."

"So you came here to what," Sera eyed him narrowly, "To save her? You?"

"At least I won't make her laugh herself to death."

"Hey…" Peredura panted, holding out a hand, still trying to regain her breath, "…don't… don't fight… not in front of me… at least…" she managed a somewhat steady deep breath, "Not until I can properly chastise you for it."

"I didn't start nuffin'," Sera groused. "He's the one what's born with a silver spoon up his arse."

"That's 'mouth,' you dunce," he corrected her, before seeing the trap.

Sera lifted an eyebrow, "Have you seen the way you walk?"

"Children!" Peredura scolded, and both of them managed to look sullen and somewhat guilty. She took a moment to compose herself, clearing her throat and settling the covers back over her, before she was prepared to address them. "That's better. Now, do you to think you two could find any sort of common ground? Please? For my sake?"

"Not unless he likes arrows… up his arse," Sera crossed her arms over her chest.

"That would be awkward," Dorian countered, "Considering there's already a spoon in the way…"

"Both of you…" Peredura groaned.

Sera started giggling, mercurially dropping the act. "Sorry, luv, too much fun, twisting your little girl panties into knots. And mage boy 'ere, too, what with those silky thingys he wears. A'right, a'right," she threw up her hands in surrender, before either one of them could retort, "For your sake, Harry-Peary, I guess I could ignore all the gold what shits out of him wherever he goes."

"You have a very disconcerting obsession with my arse."

"Dorian," Peredura's tone was full of warning, "She is trying."

"My patience," he finished the thought. But even without looking at her, he could feel her glare boring into him. "Oh, very well, I'll try my best not to antagonize the scrawny scalawag EVERY time I see her. Only on special occasions."

She rolled her eyes, but at least the two weren't in open warfare any longer. "I'll take what I can get."

"Anyway, looks like the next shift's here," Sera jumped off her perch at the foot of the bed and danced towards the head to give Peredura a peck on the cheek. "I'll leave you in mage boy's hands. See you later." She spun and skipped past Dorian, pausing long enough to cackle, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That… I can't even… doesn't make any sense… how could I…?" but he was sputtering at her back, the spry elf already down the stairs and at the door. Then there was the sound of the heavy portal closing, and Dorian and Peredura were alone. Suddenly, he didn't feel like talking. Suddenly, he didn't even want to be there. But Peredura was his friend.

But Peredura had lied to him.

He didn't know how he felt about her any longer—couldn't know. Yet he had come there this evening to find out, once and for all; and before his courage flagged again, he would have answers. Somehow.

"She does like you," Peredura hummed, "She only teases the people she likes."

"Lucky me," he quipped in a lackluster tone, his mind preoccupied with how to confront her.

"I'm glad you came by to visit me, Dorian," she started, studying his profile, wondering why he was avoiding looking directly at her. She'd already done this with Cassandra today; she couldn't imagine why she'd have to with Dorian, too.  "I wanted to thank you. The Iron Bull said that it was the two of you who found me, and your magic in particular that kept me safe and from becoming more injured while you brought me back here."

"Bull…" he had to pause to gulp, wondering what the qunari spy might have told her, as he was the only one who knew Dorian knew Peredura's secret… "He's been here, to see you, has he?"

"This morning," she nodded, but Dorian still refused to look at her. He walked around her room, absently noting the contents, while she prattled on, "After breakfast. Cassandra left so we could talk. And then he left when Vivienne stopped by. And she left when Varric… well, you get the idea. I've had a never-ending stream of visitors all day."

He hummed, something noncommittal, and seemed more interested in an ink stain on her desk than what she was saying.

"It's been nice to see everyone," she continued, "But they've been a bit too obvious about their real motives for visiting, even for me; they're all taking turns keeping me company, and keeping me distracted from my symptoms."

"How nice of them."

"And now it's your turn. Will you be staying for supper?"

"What?" he looked up from his perusal of her sparse bookshelf. "Oh, no, no, thank you, I have an engagement."

"Anyone I know?" she teased him, hoping for some sort of reaction—anything!—other than this aloof manner. This was not the Dorian that was her friend.

"Yes," he thought of Cullen, then remembered Cullen didn't want her to know about his dancing lessons, "Er, I mean, no, I don't really have an engagement, not a date or anything, just meeting a friend for a bite or two. You?"

"Whatever they bring me. Dorian, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he denied, looking at her and then looking away.

"What's the term Varric uses? Oh, yeah, bull-shit." She threw off the covers, slipping her legs over the side of the bed, but she didn't stand up to go to him. Instead she sat there, in her leggings and tunic, and waited for him to answer her.

He did, but not in a manner she expected. He walked over to her dresser, picked up her brush to examine it, and asked, "Do you remember anything—anything at all!— about your past?"

It wasn't the words he spoke, but how he spoke them, in Tevene. And she answered likewise without thinking, "No, I don't. I can't. I have amnesia."

"Then tell me," he paused to look at her, switching back to Common, "How you understood and answered me in Tevene just now."

She could finally see his face, his eyes, and perversely wished he would turn away. His gentle, jovial blue eyes were gone, replaced by hardened steel, like a double-edged sword, cutting both the one he looked at—and himself. He had remembered her. "…kaffas…"

"My sentiments exactly," he agreed. He paced towards the bed, his fingers slicing through the air angrily as he gestured. "Imagine how surprised I was, when I finally figured it out. Incredible, isn't it, how such a little thing like chopping off the ends of your ears can have such a dramatic change in your overall appearance."

"Dorian, listen, please…"

"How could you?!" he demanded, overriding her words, and she fell silent beneath his onslaught. "How could you? I thought," he took another step towards her, "I thought we were friends. I thought we liked each other. I thought we could trust each other."

"You can trust me…"

"How? How can I trust you, when I know you've been lying to me all these months. We have met. We do know each other. And you stood there and lied to my face…"

"I never lied," she denied, the heat over the accusations lending strength to her voice, strength enough to counter his. "And we never met. We saw each other, true, but we never met. We were never actually introduced. You saw me walking behind my mast… behind Vicici and your father. I saw you poking your head through a doorway to eavesdrop on their conversation. And, honestly, Dorian," she hopped off the bed to approach him, "How many magisters or their family members—how many owners of slaves—actually look at their slaves, see their features, can distinguish one from another?"

He pouted, knowing she had a point, but not wanting to give up his hurt just yet, "I can."

She made a small noise at that, not quite a scoff, something akin to surprise. "Then you're the exception. And I am sorry I didn't come clean about our, um, shared past sooner."

She was so honest, so sincere, he was having trouble holding on to his anger. Yet he had to know what she knew. "So, um, just for the record," he began to clarify, "You do remembering seeing me, before we met in Redcliffe."

"I do," she affirmed.

"And you, er, you were a slave to that man, Vivianus Vicici."

Her face grew pale, a result of both her weakened condition and the topic of conversation. Perhaps there was still a little bit of guilt over her role in Vicici's acts, a little need to serve penance for her participation in his crimes. She lifted her chin and answered him clearly, "I know what you're asking. And yes, Dorian, my master…" she paused and closed her eyes briefly, hating the way she so easily slipped back into that former self, that timid self, that slave self. Reminding herself that her master was dead, that she was free, she opened her eyes and corrected, "My former master was a blood mage, and I was his favorite source. Yes, I know why we were there, at your family's estate, that day. I know what your father asked of Vicici. I know what they talked about as we walked down that hallway. I know what you overheard." She was trying hard not to remember that conversation, his father's concerns that the ritual might turn his son into a vegetable, her master's assurance that even so, Dorian would still be able to sire children…

"Then… you know about… me…"

Peredura was surprised. Dorian looked even more uncomfortable than she over the whole mess. "What about you?"

"That I…" he stopped as suddenly as he had started, the hurt growing deeper in his otherwise gentle blue eyes, "How would my father say it, that I prefer the company of men. As if it were simply a preference, something I would outgrow, or the novelty would fade over time and then I'd come around."

She had never heard his voice turn so acidic, so bitter. "So we both like guys," she shrugged. "As long as you don't try to go after Cullen, not that he'd be interested in you, I don't see how it's any of my business."

There was irony in there somewhere, thinking of the clandestine lessens about to begin between he and Cullen, and her subtle declaration that Cullen was off limits. He wished he could see it; Maker but he needed a good laugh right then. "Not your business, perhaps, but what about the others?"

"What others?" she blinked at him.

"Your Commander and Spymaster and Seeker and…"

"Wait," she held up one hand. Her breath was starting to grow heavy; she hadn't stood for this long for several days. "Wait, you're worried about Cullen and Leliana and…"

"You've told them, about me, I presume."

"Why would I?" she answered honestly. "And what would I tell them? Yes, alright, shortly after we met in Redcliffe, the first time not the time-travel-thingy-time," she must be getting tired; she was starting to sound like Sera. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I did tell them that I thought I recognized you, but that it was during that time when I was addicted to opeigh. I told them I couldn't be sure it was you I had seen, all those years ago, and that regardless I was fairly sure you didn't recognize me. The last thing we needed right then, or now for that matter, is it getting out that I'm not human, but elven, never mind the whole former-slave-of-a-Tevinter-blood-mage-who-had-been-at-the-Conclave…"

Dorian eyed her closely, "That, er, would be rather awkward to explain."

She nodded dryly.

He looked at her, finally looked at her, openly, honestly, searchingly. She was looking back at him, just as honest, just as open, just as hopeful in her searching. She was also starting to sweat a little, her face turning gray—whether from her current physical ailments or their heated discussion he couldn't tell. He took her elbow and steered her back to bed. "You better sit down again, before you faint on me."

"I just need a moment," she argued, but it was only a token effort.

"So, er," he made her sit and settled down next to her, the two of them side-by-side, occasionally bumping shoulders, "No one else knows about my, er…"

She wanted to laugh over his continued hesitation in talking about his sex life, but her legs were aching and a chill ran down her spine. "There's something The Iron Bull once told me, that anything spoken in the bedchamber should stay in the bedchamber—at least his Ben-Hassrath superiors told him not to report on those parts of his missions, after one particularly detailed report."

Dorian gave a soft chuckle. "I can well imagine—ah, I mean, Bull is rather blunt when it comes to certain matters. And hardly discreet."

Peredura heard the slip of his tongue, but let it slide for now, filing the information away for later. It was enough to have her friend back again, or at least speaking to her. "So anything we say here will be private, just between us. And, no, Dorian, I haven't told anyone about your secret. Not a soul. It's not my secret to share. And it has no impact whatsoever on the Inquisition." She looked up out of the corner of her eye and asked, "Is that what put you on a bender the other night? Not so much finding out I'm an elf, but worried that I might have tattled on you?"

"Vishante kaffas! Does everyone know about that? I knew I never should have trusted Bull…"

"What does The Iron Bull have to do with it?" she asked, honestly confused.

Dorian blinked at her. He had assumed that Bull had been the one to tell everyone that he had drunk himself into a stupor and had to spend the night in Bull's bed, but apparently Bull had kept his mouth shut—for once in his life. "He, er, saw me, in the tavern, even ordered me a round or two, while I was still conscious enough to remember, that is."

Again she caught his slip. Again she let it go. She wasn't sure how the two of them might manage a relationship, but she was fairly sure The Iron Bull would be willing to give it a go; he did like experimenting, and he had a varied and eclectic pool of experience. And it seemed, from the faint tint of red beneath Dorian's tan, that he was entertaining the same idea.

"So, um," she briefly chewed her lower lip, feeling the deep ache settling into her limbs, "We're still friends, right?"

"Well," he hedged, but only half-heartedly, "I have spent the past several days in fear for my life, thinking I was about to be outed and run out of the Inquisition." He paused to look at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw her giving her lip another chew. "But don't mind me, Peredura; I've been guarding myself for so long, it's hard to trust anyone. Especially when I've done nothing to have deserved such loyalty from you, from the very beginning. So yes, Peredura," he brushed a lock of her hair back over her shoulder, revealing a little more of her face, "We're still friends."

She gave him a smile, and he smiled back.

"Then, um," she gave her lip another nip, "Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"

"Tea?" he repeated, at a loss.

"It's medicinal," she explained, "Solas came up with the recipe specially for me, to help with my withdrawal symptoms, which are starting to get far enough out of hand that I need…"

"Say no more," he held up his hand. Then he was standing and flapping his hands at her, making her scoot around on the bed to where he could drape the covers over her again, "One cup of tea, coming right up. And then you and I can sit and talk for a bit. I'd love to know how you and your master, excuse me, Vicici, ended up at the Conclave."

She watched him walk over to the hearth and put the kettle on to boil. "I don't know if I should…"

"You know my secret," he began measuring out the leaves and herbs for steeping, "And kept it for months. Don't you trust me to keep yours?"

She felt trapped, somehow, cushioned by pillows and warmed by a thick blanket and one of her closest friends fixing her tea to help her feel better. Alright, so maybe she wasn't quite so trapped. And Dorian had come to them with information regarding the Venatori. And it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone.

And she did trust him—implicitly.

Besides, it would help to pass the time, and distract her from her symptoms, until the tea could take effect. "Honestly, I don't remember much of what happened. That's kind of how the whole amnesia story started…"


	22. This Dance

Bull had doubts.

It was late evening, well after supper, and though most people wouldn't be going to bed yet, those who were leaving for Halamshiral early the next morning probably should be in bed. Bull was one of the latter. He knew he wanted his sleep; he needed it, as he'd be walking the whole way thanks to his size—too large for a horse and too proud to sit inside a carriage. But he also needed to speak with the Commander one last time, go over a few final details, just to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

One leader-of-men to another.

So he marched along the ramparts, his course set for Cullen's tower, knowing the man would also still be up, still be working, still be preparing and finishing up any last minute details, still be…

Bull opened the door and stopped in surprise. The office was dark, with only a small candle on the desk burning low. There was no sign of scurrying soldiers with reports, no sign of the indefatigable Commander, no sign that anyone had been in there for a couple of hours.

He scratched at the strap of his eyepatch. He had been fairly sure Cullen would be in here. He wasn't with Peredura, of that Bull was certain; he'd just come from there and she had already been preparing for bed herself. So, if Cullen was not with Peredura, and he was not in his office, where in Thedas could that man have gotten to…

Coming out of his musings, he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings. That's when he heard it, soft, muted, but steady, like a heartbeat, a gentle rhythm that resonated with something deep inside him. A voice hummed, warm and masculine—and sounding quite satisfied. "Ah…" he sighed, whoever he was, though Bull thought he recognized the voice. Bull left the door cracked behind him and inched further into the empty room, trying to figure out where the noises were coming from.

"Yes… yes… that's it… take it slow… set a rhythm… let yourself feel it… NO! No! Step back, ouch, that's my…"

Bull didn't hear the last word, the sound of something heavy landing on wooden floorboards drowning it out. He lifted his face towards the ceiling, finally discerning the sounds were coming from up there.

"Sorry, sorry," he heard Cullen's voice answering, "But this is not as simple as it seems, or as you've been leading me to believe." There was a bit of hurt mixed into his accusatory tone.

It was followed by Dorian's signatory long-suffering sigh. "Tell me about it. I believe you've bruised my arse. Oh, don't pout, my dear Commander; you'll get the hang of it. You're already much better than you were last night."

"…last… night…?" Bull repeated, whispering to himself.

"Just, set the chair back and we'll try again."

Upstairs, over Bull's head, the two men were completely unaware they were discovered. Cullen righted the chair, making sure it was off to the side this time, and returned to face Dorian, who had just regained his feet. They were using a round rug in the middle of the room as a sort of guide to help give Cullen some idea of the space he would need for dancing a waltz, and the chair had been right on the edge. When he'd stepped on Dorian's foot, the mage had tried to stumble out from beneath his heavy boots and wound up tripping over the chair. But now with both men and furniture returned to their places, Cullen eagerly slapped his hands together and demanded, "Right. Where were we?"

"My, my, my, Commander," Dorian couldn't help but tease him a little. It had been a long evening already, after an even longer week, and he desperately needed a laugh, "So stiff. And so eager. Ready to perform again at a moment's notice."

Bull's one good eye widened in the dark room below.

Cullen's eyes narrowed in the bright room above. "I haven't been asking you here to my bedchambers every night just so you could tease me. I am serious about this."

"As am I, Cullen, I assure you. Sincerely." Dorian placed a hand over his heart, even used the man's given name, trying to placate the flustered Commander. But Cullen continued to pout. It was a lovely sort of pout, as dark as he could manage with his blond locks and creamy pale skin. And it worked, Dorian dropping his teasing and returning to work. "Come here. Come on, I won't bite, you know that by now. Let's start over, shall we? Put your hand on my hip, just like that. Good. Now, I want you to think about this, think about how you want to move, and how you want my body to move with yours, got it? Then think about how to communicate that to me."

"What, I just tell you what I want you to do?"

"Yes," Dorian's voice hummed, "But not with your words. With your hand. This hand, right here. Use the pressure of your fingers, to suggest to me that we're going to move to your left, or backwards, or forwards. Whatever you're planning the next step to be, tell me with your hand." He took hold of Cullen's free hand with his and added, "With both your hands."

Bull listened to the shuffling sounds above him, unable to discern exactly what sort of movement was going on, but his imagination filled in the blanks. Especially when Dorian began to exclaim, "Yes! Yes! That's it, my dear Commander. Slow. Steady. Yes, just like that."

He fled.

He. A qunari. A Ben-Hassrath spy. A mercenary. A man who'd faced dragons and mages and giants and bears.

He was The-Iron-fucking-Bull.

And he ran away from the sound of Dorian and the Commander…

Nope. No. No way. No how. He was not going to believe that. Whatever they had been doing, whatever was going on, it was not THAT.

Yet here he was, nearly out of breath, standing outside the stables, one hand braced against the wall while his head swam.

While he pondered the reasons for his head to be swimming.

"Iron Bull," a gruff voice called out. "Is that you?"

"What?" he blinked, looking around quickly, getting his bearings while shoving away the unpleasant thoughts. "Oh, ah, hey, there, Blackwall. I was just, er, stopping by to check in with you. Wanted to make sure you'd be alright while the rest of us are gone," he lied on the spot, but he'd always been good at lying.

Blackwall stepped out of the shadows from inside the barn, walking around towards Bull's good eye. "Appreciate your concern, but everything should be fine here. Varric's staying behind after all, some sort of bad blood between him and the Seeker right now, so he volunteered to keep Sera and that strange boy in hand. That'll leave me and Vivienne free to deal with anything that might come up. Not that we expect much."

"Naw, I suppose not," Bull agreed, "Trouble seems to follow Peredura around, doesn't it? Well, don't mind me; I was just making one final check on everything before turning in. Good night, Blackwall."

"'night, Bull," he gave a curt nod before returning to the shadows.

Resigned, Bull turned away from the stables and headed for the Herald's Rest, intending to start getting what sleep he could before morning. But his steps were slow, reluctant, even sullen. He knew he'd have to pass by Cullen's tower again, and he feared what might happen, what he might see, what he might do. As he neared the walkway, movement over his head caught his attention, and though he didn't want to know, his face lifted up of its own volition to see…

Dorian was just slipping through the doorway, stepping out onto the stone walkway that led to the Main Hall of Skyhold. Even with only one good eye, Bull could see the flush to his cheeks, the slight limp in his step, and the satisfied smirk on his lips.

Bull bent his neck and studied his feet as he walked, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched. It was going to be a very long night indeed.

* * *

It was early. It was so early, it was still dark outside, the sky painted black, the stars only just beginning to wink out. Fear was curled up on his rug in front of the fire, not quite ready to leave his cozy den if there wasn't any food involved. And the servants had only brought food for his partner, not him, so he lay still, curled up in a tight little ball, and dozed and waited.

Peredura, however, was awake, wide awake and well fed and standing before her wardrobe about to get dressed. Yet she had stopped, paused, her reflection catching her eye and giving her a moment to consider.

She had changed over the past few months. So many things, and so far changed she might hardly be recognizable to any who knew her from before. She couldn't help but marvel at what eating regular healthy meals and getting plenty of outdoor exercise could do to a body. Her complexion, once pale and watery due to her years of confinement, was now a healthy rose color, her skin slightly tanned from all her time spent outdoors. She tilted her head just so and admired the way the firelight shadowed her cheekbone, and how her silky hair hid her ears and made her look so human. Then she looked full on into the mirror, her other scarred cheek coming into view, and the lovely image faltered, reminding her she wasn't what she appeared.

It was a harsh, bitter, painful, and undeniable truth.

A gross feeling grew over her, morbid and self-deprecating and hopeless. Slowly, almost mesmerically, as if controlled by a puppet master's hand, her fingers untied her belt and opened the front of her robe. She stood before the mirror, holding the fabric as a backdrop, studying her reflection, her body. Her figure, too, had changed, morphing from the unhealthy and underfed slave to the toned lean muscles of a trained archer. Her body had a pleasing shape, the developing muscles actually adding definition and curves to her form. But she didn't see this; she saw only the pale lines, some thicker, some thinner, carved across her flesh. No amount of exercise could change the unchangeable, could remove the unremovable, could erase the indelible scars. No matter what she did, how hard she worked, what lies she told…

…she would always have her past, that time in her life where she had been Peredura the slave, the possession of a blood mage, the opeigh addict, the willing assistant to his evil…

Fear shifted and gave a soft sort of bark behind her, alerting her that someone was coming, the sound crashing into her thoughts like a mace and shattering them apart. The next moment she was closing her robe, tying it fast once more as Cullen's voice called out her name. "Pere? Are you, erm, are you decent?"

"Cullen," she answered, spinning in place to see him pop into view as he came up the stairs. "Good morning." Fear got up and gave himself a shake, as if echoing her words, and then sat in eager anticipation of attention. Cullen gave the best scratches, just behind the ears, digging his nails in that little bit that made Fear's leg want to twitch! He panted at stared, willing the man to walk past.

Cullen, however, hesitated a moment on the landing, taking everything into consideration, nothing—not even the most minuscule detail—slipping past his trained gaze, before he acknowledged, "Good morning. I don't mean to catch you at a bad time." He came as far as the mabari, offering the anticipated scratch, making the puppy shiver. "The servants told me you were already up and breakfasted, and I thought you might be ready by now, and we could walk to the gates together. But I see that I'm a bit early."

He watched her waver, chew her lip, glance around as she thought of an excuse. "What? No, um, you're not early. I'm late. I'm afraid I let my mind wander for a moment. Just, er, just give me a minute, um, and we could…"

The hound forgotten, Cullen started for her, his movement enough to silence her useless vocalizations, to still her furtive gestures.

To send her heart racing.

He crossed the room, his steps surprisingly silent in spite of all the armor he wore. The golden metal shone like sunlight in the darkness, the fur brushed to a lustrous softness, the leather freshly oiled and conditioned. His gloves were tucked into his belt, so when he reached out to touch her cheek, her scarred cheek, she could feel the heat of his flesh against hers. Except for where those damnable scars lay.

Cullen had had his suspicions when he first entered her bedchambers. He could tell that she'd been standing in front of her mirror, that she had only just closed her robe. That knowledge coupled with the fact that he new the servants had brought her tray up a good half hour before, which was only half-finished and lying cold beside the bed, and he could conclude that she had been standing and brooding over her reflection. He had touched her scarred cheek as a test, and when tears threatened to drown her brown eyes into mud, he knew he had supposed correctly. He sighed, not sure if he could wrestle with her mental demons—much less win—but he knew he would have to try. "Come with me."

"I'm not dressed yet," she protested mildly, trying desperately to keep the despair from her voice.

"We won't go far," he promised, "Only to the balcony."

She swallowed thickly, from the misery as well as fear. "I'm not overly fond of heights, remember?" she reminded him, even as his hand fell to her shoulder and encouraged her forward, "And it's cold outside. And I'm only wearing a robe. And…"

"And I'll keep you warm and safe," he breathed huskily, shifting her around until she stood in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her, along with a healthy portion of his mantle, pressing their bodies as close as his armor would allow. Then he pushed open the door and walked them out onto the balcony.

Despite his efforts. she shivered, yet she wasn't entirely sure it was from the cold. He walked them right to the edge, stopping only because the railing was in their way, or so it seemed to her. She felt her head spin at the dizzying heights, the courtyard dipping so far below, the mountains rising so high above. "Please…" she turned her face aside, tucked beneath his chin, and tried to spin around, but he held her too fast, "Cullen…"

"I've got you," he assured her, running a hand up and down her arm, soothing and enticing at the same time. "You're not going to fall." He paused and gave a rather cheeky laugh, "You do trust me, don't you?"

"Cullen," she sighed, half exasperated, half pleading, but answered, "Of course I trust you."

"Good," he sounded quite pleased with her answer. "Then, open your eyes, lift your face up, and tell me what you see."

"What I see," she repeated, not at all liking whatever game he was at. "Hm, well, let's see, there's the mountains. And the sky. And the stars. And it's night! And what else am I supposed to see!"

She could feel his whole chest move as he took a deep breath to steady his own temper. "Hm, yes, well, I suppose it is a bit difficult to notice from this angle. Here, lean out with me, just a little bit, that's it, I've got you, now," he leaned over to press his cheek, freshly shaved for once, against hers and tipped them both a little further over the railing. She clung to him, desperately trying not to look down, her whole body trembling and unable to stop. Yet his hold on her was secure, his balance steady, his head and shoulder between her and the ground—the far, far, distant ground—as he lifted one hand and pointed, "There. What do you see there? To the south."

She wanted to stare in consternation at him, but his arm was in the way. Giving up, knowing she couldn't go back inside until he allowed it, she lined her sight up along the length of his arm and stared at the spot where his finger hung in the sky. "Nothing," she answered honestly, and perhaps a bit crossly, "There's nothing there but sky."

"Exactly," he agreed, leaning them back away from the balcony, though still not allowing her to retreat inside. "That was the part of the sky where the Breach occurred. But it's gone, now. It's closed, because of you. Yes, you may have felt obligated to help us close it, because you're the only one with that mark, but you did help us. Willingly. That counts for something.

"And look there," he pointed downwards, down into the courtyard beneath them. She barely spared it a glance, unwilling to acknowledge the height, preferring instead to focus on his breath warming her ear, "To that tower there, the one you're having renovated into a sanctuary for mages. And over there's the infirmary you ordered to have set up for the sick and wounded. Look at all the changes happening around us, here at Skyhold, all because you decided it would be a good idea to have something done. For that matter," he gave a scoff, "We wouldn't even be here, at Skyhold, if you hadn't found it. And us. We were lost in the mountains after Haven, cold, starved, hurt, angry, scared. We fought against each other, because there was nothing else for us to do. Not until you came along and led us here.

"Now look out there," his arm pointed one last time, down into the valley lying before the gates. She followed his gesture, no longer worried over the height or the distance, his words beginning to penetrate. She saw where he was pointing, all the hundreds of tents and campfires, thousands of men and women. "Look at them, Peredura. Look at all those who've come to us, to the Inquisition. Not because of what we stand for. Not because they saw you close the Breach, or because they know you need an army to face Corypheus, or any other of a hundred important reasons. Those people, those men and women, those soldiers and peasants, those parents and children, are here because of you," he turned her around to face him, cupping her face in his hands. letting her feel him against both her cheeks, scarred and unscarred, her past and her present.

"Whatever is in your past, whatever you've done before, whatever happened when you were under duress—none of that matters. Not any longer. Not after all you've done since then, freely of your own will and good intentions. And wisdom. And kindness. And love." Maker, how badly he wanted to kiss those trembling lips. "They don't care where you came from, or what torment you were made to endure, or what secrets you hide," his fingers combed deeper into her hair, his fingertips brushing her ears and eliciting another shudder. "They only care about you. About your actions. About a young woman named Peredura who came from nowhere and fed the hungry. Or gave blankets to the cold. Or fended off wild animals. Or championed a widow against injustice. Or simply delivered flowers to a grave. You inspire them, Peredura. You inspire us all."

Maker forgive him, but he could resist no longer. His head lowered, his hands tilted her face upwards, their lips brushed. Then his eyes closed, shutting out the view and the cold and the uncertain future waiting for them in Halamshiral. All that mattered at that one moment, was her. This young woman, so strong and yet so vulnerable. So capable and yet so innocent. So unattainable and yet so thoroughly his.

Sudden inspiration gripped him, his earlier words having turned prophetic, as a new sensation swept through him. The urge was primal and unsettling—whatever he was feeling was tearing away his self-control, something he normally would not give up lightly—but for one moment this one morning he chose to give in. Their kiss deepened, their tongues engaging in mutual combat, while his body held sway over her. He could feel the air move past as they walked a few steps, hear her grunt when she ended up pressed against something solid, but most of his attention was focused elsewhere, on another plane, both curious of and mystified by his self and his actions.

He'd never had very many opportunities for this sort of thing before. Not that he had never done it—back when he was a young recruit, there had been one or two willing girls who weren't quite as irritatingly giggly as the others. And he had been curious about the whole act, certainly. And one thing had led to another… but that all had been mostly curiosity, nothing that held any sort of meaning or emotions, nothing near like what he felt now.

And it had been a lifetime ago. For the past decade—ever since Kinloch—he'd felt no desire, no need, to put it bluntly: no libido. Every time he might have felt even the inkling of an attraction towards someone, the vision of those two desire demons would return, leaving him feeling as if he'd suddenly been thrown into a frozen lake. It had grown so predictable, so painful, so violent, he had begun to simply give up and take every precaution to avoid any situation where such, erm, yearnings might arise.

Yet this morning he stood, after years of his self-imposed celibacy, feeling his body react to hers, feeling the long-slumbering drives kick into life, feeling the rush of the conquest suffuse his veins.

And never once did those desire demons enter his thoughts.

Blessed Andraste, but he ached for Peredura, emotionally and physically. He could feel the flush of blood racing through him, the building of anticipation, the mounting of desire. And for the first time in oh-so-long he knew he could, too. He knew he could perform, he could see this to its conclusion, he could reach that pinnacle and sate himself with her, within her. They stood there on her balcony, her frail and trembling body breathing life into his numbed and hardened body.

Her fingers in his hair, encouraging the locks free from their tight control.

His hand sliding up the side of her robe, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

She gasped against his mouth, yet it wasn't from alarm or fear, but shock. Surprise. Even a smattering of her own desire. It was her answering desire that broke him from the spell, that brought him to his senses, that allowed him to regain control. Manfully he strove to pull their lips apart, to allow his hand to move towards her waist. As much as his body and this newly (re?)discovered drive protested, he was the master of his self and his actions. And though both he and Peredura may be willing, now was definitely not the time.

He opened his eyes as he leaned back, wondering what her reaction would be. It was almost comical, the way her eyes remained closed, the way her shoulders followed his retreating warmth, the way her lips remained parted and wet and willing. It filled him with such confidence, such amazement, to know that he literally held sway over the most influential woman in all of Thedas—in absence of the next Divine, that is.

It was a heady sensation, something to be savored minimally, lest it, well, go to his head.

His hands went to her shoulders, pushing her back against the wall beside the door, giving her something strong and unmoving so she could steady herself. He watched her lips turn from parting to pouting, watched her eyelids lift and unveil her dark brown orbs, watched her flushed cheeks begin to cool as the moment of passion faded.

"Cullen…?" Damn, but he had her head spinning, her heart racing, her body aching. And all because he'd kissed her? No, she realized, he'd done more than that. Yet again he'd seen through her subterfuges and deflections and discovered her problem. Yet again he'd given her the tools to deal with it, to put the issue into perspective, and to silence the fears and doubts. She didn't feel she deserved him, not this man who was so intuitive, so giving, so capable…

And he knew it. That damnable smirk was on his lips again, that self-confident, knowing little half-a-grin that told her he knew it, too.

She gave him half-a-laugh in answer. "Go," she shoved lightly at his shoulder, turning him, pushing him back into her bedchamber.

"Is that an order, Inquisitor?"

She could hear the humor in his voice, and was nearly able to match it, "It is." She followed him inside and closed the balcony doors firmly behind her, before giving him more little pushes and shoves, steering him towards the stairs. "If we're to leave on time for Halamshiral, I need to get dressed. And to do that, I need you out of this room. So, go. Now. And take Fear with you. I'll meet you and the others down by the main gates."

His hand gripped the top of the railing, but instead of descending the stairs, he turned towards her and asked, "Promise?"

She hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"No more brooding?" he pressed.

She glanced away, a troubling expression flickering across her features, but made herself lift her face and hold his gaze confidently before she answered, "I can't promise that, but I can assure you, you've given me what I need to combat it, the next time it happens. Thank you, Cullen."

She hadn't been sure it was the answer he wanted, but it was the only answer she could give. And, apparently, he was satisfied. He shifted slightly, looming above her, that look of mastery on his face. It sent her heart racing yet again with eager anticipation, making her lick her lips in artless hopefulness. And he fulfilled that hope, kissing her, though nowhere near as passionately as a few moments before. Still it made her knees weak. Still it made her head spin. Still it made her yearn for… what, she did not know, exactly; but she knew he knew.

All because of that damnable smirk.

"Go," she begged, unable to endure any more of this sweet torture.

"As you command, Inquisitor." He watched her reaction to his words, the darkening to her cheeks, the heaviness of her breath, the exasperated and desperate curve to her brow. Then he gave her a bow and commanded, "Come along, Fear, let's get you to Blackwall. He's going to be watching you while your partner is away."

Fear gave Peredura a look, but she waved her hand for him to go with Cullen, so he padded on his oversized paws, easily keeping pace with Cullen as he started down the stairs.

Cullen mulled over his actions with her as he and the hound headed down the tower and through the hallways. He could admit it: he might be feeling a little guilty over what he'd done, teasing her as he did, giving her a taste and then denying her the dish. However, they did need to leave for Halamshiral that morning—they simply didn't have the time right then to try for anything, um, physical. Besides, it had served the purpose of distracting her from her dark thoughts, at least for as long as it would take her to finish getting dressed and then join them at the gates.

He popped out of the main doors of the Keep and paused a moment, Fear beside him and taking the opportunity to sniff the air. It was a crisp morning, the breeze slight but just cool enough to add a bit of vigor to one's step. In very little time he was down in the courtyard with the others, passing the time in idle chatter, everyone waiting for the Inquisitor to appear before they could start.

It was Fear's excited bark that alerted everyone to her presence. She came out of the main hall, the buckles on her armor catching the torchlight, her helmet tucked into the crook of her arm, her other hand clutching nervously at the hilt of a dagger at her waist. She kept her chin up as Vivienne had taught her, giving a slight nod to every soldier she made eye contact with. The effect was heartening. It was her first appearance since the Incident, as people were calling it, and for the soldiers to see her so strong, so healthy, as if nothing as wrong…

A cheer rose through the courtyard before she was halfway down the steps. She smiled and blushed, giving them a wave in response, but quickened her pace to reach the others before the cheering grew too loud. "Good morning, everyone," she beamed at Cassandra and Bull, Dorian and Solas, Josephine and Leliana and Blackwall, studiously avoiding Cullen's gaze.

"Inquisitor," Blackwall nodded to her. "Just want you to know, I'll take good care of Fear while you're away. Might even go hunting once or twice. No need for you to worry about him."

"Of course, Blackwall. And thank you, again. I know he'll be in good hands. And you," she turned to look down at the hound, "Behave yourself."

Fear tilted his head, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

She turned from the hound and faced the others. "Is everyone here?"

"You were the last to arrive," Leliana answered.

Peredura nodded, all business. She was still not looking forward to having to ride a horse out of Skyhold, much less into Halamshiral. "Then let's get this thing started."

"If you please, Inquisitor," Master Dennet stepped forward, "I've taken the liberty of finding you a new mount. Handpicked him myself."

"Oh?" she asked, politely curious. The crowd parted and Dennet's assistant, some nameless stableboy, brought forward the new horse. Her heart began to race, the animal so perfect for her, that she gave a girlish squeal and dropped her helmet so she could hug the gruff horsemaster. "Oh! Master Dennet! He's perfect. Thank you." She planted a kiss on his rough cheek. "Thank you."

"Yes, well," he coughed once she had let him go, "I wasn't sure about the pedigree and all, being he's a Dalish All-Bred. Don't know how he'll handle in a fight, but he's sure-footed and far less high strung than a Courser, something nice and placid for a beginner rider."

Peredura couldn't care about the horse's pedigree or his training. He was a slightly smaller mount, with a white mane and a tan-and-white piebald coat, and a burst of white nearly in the center of his head. She looked into the animal's eyes, and he looked back at her, and she knew this would be the horse for her. "He's beautiful."

"If you're satisfied with your mount," Leliana broke into her thoughts, "We should get going. We'll want to reach the lower camp just as the sun is rising, for the most effect. It will surely inspire the troops, to see you pass among them first thing in the morning."

Peredura rolled her eyes, but it was where no one could see, her face next to her horse's neck. "Very well. Where's my helmet? Ah, thank you, Master Dennet. And the mounting block?"

"Right here," he led the horse himself over to the steps.

Peredura managed to mount without vaulting over the horse entirely or otherwise embarrassing herself. Settling her helmet on the saddle before her, she took the reins from Dennet and waited for the others.

Fear came up to her side and gave a very insistent bark, making the horse sidestep slightly before turning his head to give the hound a reproachful look.

"No, Fear," she looked down at him, too, "I've already told you; you're staying here. Maybe next time I'll take you with, but there's more training you need to have before you can start coming with me."

He sat down on his haunches and gave her his own reproachful look.

"Oh, you are incorrigible. I'll tell you what, stay here, be a good boy, do everything Blackwall tells you to do, practice real hard, and maybe I'll bring you back a special treat, some sort of fancy Orlesian treat just for dogs."

Josephine coughed, "I'm sure we can manage something."

Fear gave an expectant bark, as if insisting she make sure she does bring him something, but he returned to Blackwall's side.

"Inquisitor," Cullen's voice called out, letting her know all was in readiness.

She looked at him, and caught just a glimpse of that smirk before he squelched it. Oh, he was not playing fair! knowing how she reacted to his smile, and doing it in front of the others. Well, she didn't have to play fair, either. "Very well, Commander. Come along, I want you up front, with me," she continued, nudging her horse forward. Despite Dennet's assurances that this horse was calmer than her last, he was still a very large horse. "I'd feel better, knowing there's a seasoned rider beside me, should I prove unable to control my mount."

He fell in on her left, keeping that smirking right side of his where she could see it. "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

Nope, he was definitely not playing fair!

The next moment, she noticed Devensport and Abbets, her favorite two templar escorts, were also mounted and packed for the trip. She smiled at them, Abbets giving her a gruff salute, Devensport flashing a warm smile back. They waited until she and the Commander had passed before pulling their mounts in just behind. Then she was past the gate and on her way to Halamshiral.

As they entered the lower camp, as the sun rose to shine off their armor, as the soldiers stood to cheer her passing, Peredura's heart lifted. She simply couldn't help herself. With the ever-faithful Devensport and Abbets standing guard, and with such close friends and companions accompanying her, and most importantly with Cullen beside her, she felt confident that whatever Halamshiral would bring, she could handle it.

She had to, for everyone's sake, she thought to herself as she once more fingered the dagger at her side.

* * *

"…are you alright?" Cullen asked Peredura. As he strolled out onto the balcony, he took a moment or three to study her, finding more than a few small causes for concern. She was leaning against the railing, too tired to either notice or care about the dizzying height. And she was still dressed in her armor, not having bothered to change back into her uniform after her latest—and final—escapade that night. Some of the fabric was torn, other parts were bloodied or stained with gore he refused to identify. But she at least was alive and whole. Yet when he had seen her alone out here on the balcony, her posture and silence belying her brooding, he had grown concerned and wanted to check on her personally.

She sighed deeply, sounding tired to her very bones, but she lifted her head and managed a wan sort of smile for him. "I know what you're really asking me." She turned back to look out over the grounds of the Winter Palace as he leaned on the railing next to her. "And you're right, I am brooding. I am standing here, second-guessing myself, wondering if we did the right thing." She turned just her head towards him this time, her large brown eyes even softer than ever. "I stood there, in front of an entire sovereign country, and I told them who would be the one to rule them. I imposed my will on them. Me." She turned back to the view, one hand reaching around to cup something at her waistband beneath her coat. "But I had to, because no one else would. I had to, to stop Corypheus." She shook her head, "Like you said back at Skyhold, before we left to come here. I'm the one who does those things… these things," she pulled the something out from beneath her coat and set it on the railing before them, "Because no one else will."

"What is that?" he found himself asking, staring at the simple dagger. It looked over-used and not very well cared for, and somehow familiar.

"My motivation," she answered, "At least, in so far as I had to come here, to Halamshiral, and stop Corypheus tonight. I'm sure he has other plans, other means at his disposal, to bring about that abominable future, but this one plan," she fingered the dagger, "This one outcome, has been changed."

A chill crept down Cullen's spine as he stared at the soiled weapon. He remembered it now, the dagger she had on her when she and Dorian took their brief sojourn into the future, a future of Corypheus' design. It was stained with blood, dried and caked and rusting the blade into its sheath. His blood. His blood that had ended his life. His blood that he had never spilled, but another him had begged her to spill…

Maker's breath, just thinking about it gave him a headache!

"I think we've all been motivated to see Corypheus' plans thwarted tonight," he purposefully looked away from the dagger. "And I for one am glad it's over. It may be foolish, but…" his hand reached out to cup her cheek, to lift her face up, to pull her gaze from the memory of the dead Cullen to the reality of the living Cullen standing before her, "I was worried for you tonight."

She gave him that smile, a little stronger this time, and put her hand over his. She might have said something in answer, he might have said something more, but their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of music and a chorus of applause rising from behind them. Cullen turned his head to look inside, and Peredura quietly spoke, "They're calling the last dance. Tonight's almost over."

To his ears, she still sounded tired, not as melancholy as when they first started talking, but nearly done in nonetheless. With the night almost over and her so close to exhaustion, he knew it was now or never. Swallowing down his nervousness, determined not to let either his or Dorian's hard work go to waste, he took his hand from her cheek and stood up straight and stiff at attention, saying, "I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask."

He saw the look of confusion flicker over her features, the slight head shake as she tried to decipher his cryptic actions. And he loved the way her mouth fell slightly open in surprise as he swept his arm wide in a low bow, keeping his head up and his eyes on her as he asked, "May I have this dance, my lady?"

A sound burst from her chest, like a bubble popping, and she smiled, "Of course! I mean, um," she tried to stifle the girlish giggle and compose herself, but for once he didn't mind the silly noises. He kept his eyes on her, watching in the predawn light how her cheeks started to turn a fetching shade of pink, "I thought templars didn't dance. That it's not part of their training, or something."

"It isn't," he agreed, pleased when she took his hand and he finally had an excuse to pull her close. Privately he blessed Dorian for suggesting he learn a dance such as the waltz, something that allowed him to hold her so, "But for you, I'll try." One hand cupped hers, as his other slipped down to her waist. He could feel her place her free hand behind his shoulder, half leaning against him for support, and half wanting to pull him even closer. Then slowly, carefully, and very stiffly, he began to move them as one.

Or tried to, anyway.

They never found out that they had an audience. Through the balcony doors, across the hall, from a quiet and tucked-out-of-the-way corner, Solas was watching over them. He hadn't quite made out the words of the conversation they had had, but he could read their body language enough to get the gist of it. And Peredura's giggle, so free and open and pure, carried like the jingling of sleigh bells to his ears. He hummed along to the tune of the dance, tapping his foot in time to the music, as he stood bittersweet guard over the pair enjoying their private tryst.

"Hey, Solas," Bull's voice broke across the music and made him turn from the sight. "You seen the Boss lately? I know the danger is past and all, but I won't feel easy tonight," he glanced out one of the windows to see the sky growing lighter and amended, "Er, this morning, until everyone is safe in bed."

"You needn't concern yourself with her welfare," Solas nodded towards the balcony, his jewelry jingling with the movement, "She's been taken care of."

"Huh?" Bull articulated, twisting his neck to swing his good eye around to see where Solas had gestured. He didn't notice anything at first, only an empty balcony, but then Cullen and Peredura staggered and stumbled back into view.

"Sorry, sorry," Cullen was apologizing, not so much that Bull could hear him, as he could read Cullen's lips. "I know I haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I have been practicing."

He saw the Boss reach her hand down to his wrist, guide his hand a little lower from her waist to the top of her hip. Then they spun, Cullen turning his back to the doors and Peredura's lips coming into view. "Use your hands. Give me a little push or a tug to suggest how you want us to move. Use this hand, too. A push here and a pull there, and we're turning this way…"

They traded again, Cullen coming back around. "I…. think I'm… getting the hang of it… slow… steady… just like this…"

Peredura misstepped, and they both stumbled, twisting around yet again. They paused in their dance to allow her to catch her breath, "Sorry. Didn't mean to step on your foot like that." She tilted her head while he said something Bull couldn't see. "No, no, you were just fine. It's me. I'm a bit unsteady after everything that's been happening tonight." One last time, Bull could see the side of Cullen's face, just enough to know he was speaking. But it was Peredura's face that held his attention, her eyes shining with emotion, her lips parted with her breath, her cheeks flushed with warmth. "Not on your life, Commander. As you said, we may never have another chance like this. I don't want to waste a moment of it."

The two pulled each other even closer, and together they waltzed into a corner of the balcony out of sight.

Bull wanted to laugh. He didn't know why, but relief bubbled up inside of him, rising up like steam from a kettle, like sea foam along the shore after a heavy storm. It started from his toes, making his knees weaken for a moment, making his stomach do a funny little flip-flop, making his heart skip and thump erratically, making his head swim.

THAT'S what Dorian was doing in Cullen's bedchamber back at Skyhold, teaching him to dance!

He gave in to the laugh. Shit, but it felt good, this headiness, like a warm buzz from a strong drink, like the rush of adrenaline after a hard battle, like the afterglow of sex. He laughed and laughed, and felt the need to share his emotion. He looked over and slapped Solas hard on the back of his shoulder. The elf had seen the blow coming and moved with it, absorbing the shock and energy, and most importantly keeping his feet. He wasn't exactly sure why the qunari was so happy, but he had his suspicions.

"I… I… I've got to…" Bull panted, diminishing the laughter and catching his breath. He finished with a grunt to clear his throat and tried again, "You were right, Solas; she is in very good hands. I'll just leave the Commander to, um, see to her needs for the rest of tonight, and I'll just, er, go check on the others." In his thoughts he was already moving, trying to remember where he had last seen Dorian. That Vint was going to get quite a talking to!

"Good night, Bull," Solas was saying to his back, sure the giant of a man hadn't heard him. He wasn't offended by the snub, turning his ever watchful, guardian gaze back to the balcony, determined to allow the two doomed lovers as much happiness as they could hope for, and as much time as they could borrow.


	23. The Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you feel it?
> 
> Can you feel it coming?
> 
> Oh, yeah, I can.
> 
> Here it comes…

"You've been quiet," Peredura hummed softly, her words barely discernible over the sounds their horses were making, "Ever since we left the Shrine of Dumat."

"What?" Cullen looked up from his study of his horse's mane. He blinked at her, then nodded. "Oh, yes, that would be fine. Whatever you say, Madam Inquisitor." Quickly his gaze fell once more on something only he could see.

Peredura's eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous look and one he could have easily noted—if he would only see her when he looked at her. But he was lost within his thoughts, quiet and brooding. It was a side of him that, though she was well aware of its existence, it was rarely seen. And it always left her feeing uneasy. She grew determined to snap him out of it; after all, he would do so, and had done so, for her. Squelching a mischievous tug at the corner of her mouth, she pressed, "So, um, you'll wear it then?"

"Wear what?" he answered automatically, his preoccupied brain seizing on only a word or two of hers and repeating them, a poor imitation of having a conversation.

"The orange dress with the pink polkadots. Vivienne said it would be very fetching on you, with your coloring and all."

"Oh, oh, of course, Inquisitor," he nodded absently, "As soon as we get back to Skyhold."

She made a noise of disgust, confirming that he hadn't truly heard a word she'd said. Deciding to try a different tactic, she looked around to make sure they were alone. Bull was off somewhere, far out of sight, scouting the way home back to Skyhold. And Dorian had pulled his horse out ahead of them, no doubt eager to return to the fresh cooked meals and modern conveniences of the fortress. Assured they wouldn't get caught, she leaned across her horse's neck and close to Cullen's face. "Commander!"

"Yes, ser, Inquisitor!" He snapped to attention in his saddle, turning his face towards her, alert and focused at last.

And she kissed him.

It was a loud smack, wet and messy as their horses were moving out of sync and her aim was off, but it worked. He pulled back in surprise, then embarrassment, his face bursting out a bright red from his collar to his hairline. Maybe a bit under his hair, too, she noted, peeking between the strands. She let him stew and sputter for a moment, enjoying having flustered him for once, before she turned serious once more.

"Do I have your attention now?"

"I… of course… Pere… what was that for…?"

She sighed and pulled her horse to a stop, Cullen following her lead and doing the same. She kneed and nudged her mount around so she could face Cullen, their steeds side-by-side, her thigh pressed up against his. "I've been trying to talk with you for the past three miles, but you haven't heard a word I've said."

Again he blinked his hazel eyes, misty with confusion, "I… but I… you said… er…"

"Don't deny it, Cullen. Not after you've just promised to put on a dress as soon as we get back to Skyhold."

"What!? I'd never… that… couldn't have… you're joking…"

She shrugged, throwing in an unconcerned eye roll, and left him to stew over the thought. "At any rate, I trust I have your attention now?"

The blush had faded a bit—just a bit—and looked quite handsome on his sheepish features. "I suppose I have been a bit… preoccupied. It's just so frustrating!" His expression changed as he finally gave vent to his spleen, slamming his fist against his thigh in emphasis, causing his mount to shift to the side just a bit. "After Samson abandoned Therinfal Redoubt, it took us weeks to track him down again at the Shrine of Dumat. And we came so close to capturing him, only to end up missing him by a matter of hours. We had good intelligence, fresh intelligence, no more than a week old. He couldn't have slipped through our fingers so easily."

"It wasn't 'easily'," she set her hand over his, relaxing the fingers, holding his gaze. "He had to leave a lot of his men behind to cover his escape, not to mention a lot of valuable resources," she nodded at the overladen packs on the back of his horse. She and Dorian also had bursting packs full of salvaged, half-burnt papers and bits of tools and shattered lyrium bottles—whatever they could find in the rubble that they thought might be useful in figuring out Samson's next move. "We also cost him his private base of operations, and the time it'll take for him to establish a new one. And," she pulled back a little, her voice turning soft, "There was Maddox."

"Maddox," Cullen sighed, remembering the tranquil mage who'd taken his own life rather than allow himself to be taken by the Inquisition, "I'd known him, too, back in Kirkwall. I… I never thanked you, properly, for suggesting and taking the time to lay him to rest."

"Of course," she gave him a little smile. She opened her mouth as if to say more, and so did he, and both quickly stopped their words in favor of the other. And both saw that they had stopped for the other. It was an awkwardly tender moment, punctuated by their breathy, half-embarrassed laughs, but it was interrupted before it could be resolved.

"Hey, Boss! You gotta come see this…" Bull's voice called out, effectively ending any further conversation. Peredura gave a guilty start, seeing as she was still holding Cullen's hand, but covered it by turning her mount around to face the direction Bull was calling from. Dorian, thankfully, was still far enough ahead to have missed their exchange, but he too was turning his horse and heading in the new direction.

"This can't be good," mumbled a still pessimistic Cullen, and though Peredura continued to worry he was slipping back into his brown study, she did have to agree with him, however reluctantly. She clicked at her horse and brought up the rear, the three mounts tramping noisily through the brush and thin forest. They rounded an outcropping of rocks to find Bull standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet braced shoulder-width apart, his good eye trained on the shallow valley before them.

There was nothing overly remarkable about the valley itself. The outer rim was ringed with sparse forest and rock outcroppings, much like where they were standing. The floor was wide and oval shaped, with one end a little narrower than the other. It was strewn with short shrub brush and scattered boulders, offering at the same time both ideal cover and, unfortunately, ideal kindling. As if to prove this point, there were scores of scorch marks all around, staining rocks and vegetation alike with black sootiness, telling her and the others quite plainly with what, exactly, they were dealing.

"Oh, lovely!" Dorian quipped, the false excitement in his voice oozing with sarcasm, "What a wonderful way to ruin a perfectly good day!"

"A dragon?" Cullen swallowed. "Maker's breath! What luck."

"I know, right?" Bull's voice was keen and bright and husky with anticipation. He turned around to face the others, his face broken wide open with an eager and exhilarated smile. He either completely missed Dorian's and Cullen's lack of enthusiasm, or chose to ignore them. "The Boss always has THE BEST luck in finding these things."

Samson and red templars and Cullen's dark mood were all forgotten in the face of a fresh—and very immediate—danger. Peredura dismounted her horse, absently handing Bull the reins as she studied the field of battle. The dragon was a good five hundred yards distant, nearer to the far side of the valley than it was to them. It was also fast asleep, curled into a tight ball, snout covered by its tail, a fresh pile of bones not far from its maw. She gave her lower lip a brief chew in worry, knowing this wasn't going to be easy. Then again, it never is, not for her, at any rate.

She sighed and turned back to the others, a slightly apologetic curve to her brows and tint to her cheeks. "I'm sorry, but…"

"I know," Cullen answered, not looking up, having already dismounted and tethered his horse to a somewhat sturdy-looking tree trunk. While she had been studying and debating the situation with herself, he had already been readying himself for battle. His movements efficient and well-practiced, he kept his focus on his equipment, checking that his sword was loose in its scabbard and his shield was secure against his arm. "As members of the Inquisition, it's our duty to secure the peace and safety of others." Finished with his shield, he reached into one of his packs and pulled out his helmet, not the elaborate and ceremonial lion-head-shaped one back at Skyhold, but a practical and sturdy helmet with a narrow slit to protect the eyes and guards that could close to cover the mouth. Then he looked up at her, his hazel eyes turning a soft and almost gentle brown, "I saw the pile of bones, too, the ones the dragon's been feasting on; there are human remains in there, children quite possibly, judging by the size of some of the skulls. We cannot suffer this monster to live, not while we're here, now, willing and able to kill it."

Dorian gave a long suffering sigh, mumbling as he dismounted, "First Bull, now the Commander. Must be something about warriors, always thirsting for blood."

Bull looked up from tying off Peredura's mount to another tree. "So, how do you wanna handle this?"

She turned back to the valley, and turned back to chewing her lip. "Truthfully, it's got the advantage over us. Sure there are plenty of boulders to hide behind, but there's also lots of shrubs for it to set on fire and flush us out of hiding. We're going to have to try a full frontal assault. The Iron Bull, you know what to do. Dorian," she started, tying the cheek guards closed of her own helmet as she doled out assignments, "You're going to have to stay back this time, out of the main part of the fight. Keep the rest of us covered with that magic protection spell of yours. Go it?"

"Yes, ser," he felt the urge to salute but stopped himself in time. Though of course he would have done anything she asked of him, privately he was extremely grateful that she had ordered him to stay back.

"Cullen, I want you to go in after The Iron Bull, but not right away. Let him charge in first, draw the dragon's attention. Once it's fully engaged with him, that's when I want you to come in from the side, flank the creature, and attack its legs. It'll turn it's attention on you then, but that's what we want. Use your shield, keep your head, and keep its attention; that'll allow The Iron Bull to strike at its neck and belly. Those scales are softer, but still hard enough; it'll take time to wear through them. Just keep at it, taking turns distracting it, and eventually one of you will strike something vulnerable."

"And what will you do?" Cullen couldn't stop himself from asking, settling his own helmet into place. Though as a soldier he had been trained to follow orders, and he would follow her orders, as a man he loved her and didn't want to see her come to harm.

"I'll stay back, find cover," she assured him, stringing her bow, "Protect Dorian's arse as well as harass the dragon from afar. Maybe I can get one or two lucky shots in and blind it; that'll keep it from flying away on us. Otherwise, well," she shrugged, "It's gonna be a long afternoon, gentlemen. I suggest we get started."

"On it, Boss," Bull nodded.

"Just a moment," Cullen turned quickly back to his horse and began fumbling at the straps holding the packs in place behind his saddle.

"What are you doing?" Dorian asked, anxious about the upcoming battle and just wanting to get it done and over with, and Cullen's little delay at the last moment was doing nothing for his nerves!

"The horses, they might bolt, especially if this fight lasts as long as you predict," Cullen hefted down one pack and lugged it over to the rock outcropping. "If they do, we wouldn't want them to run off with our packs, would we? Just in case we can't catch them after the fight."

The other three glanced at each other, exchanging blank looks, and then in the next moment rushed forward as one and began removing the rest of the packs.

The horses secure as best they could, the packs protected by the rocks, their armor checked and weapons readied, Peredura knew there was no more stalling. "Alright, you two, get moving. Dorian, we'll head on over that way, and hopefully draw its attention from our horses. Oh, one more thing," she turned back to grasp at Cullen's sleeve, her brown eyes serious and intense, "Stay away from its tail."

His honey-colored brows curved, but before he could ask for clarification, she had turned away to jog after Dorian. "It's… tail…?"

"Yeah," Bull grunted, starting off the other direction. "Trust me, that tail is murder. Remember that first dragon we fought, the old and crippled one?" he paused to laugh, remembering the fight himself, "Even with joints so swollen it could barely stand, that tail if its was strong enough to sweep me off my feet. Damn near broke my legs, if it hadn't been for Dorian's magical spell. Hey, that reminds me," Bull's left hand reached out, swallowed Cullen's right shoulder, and easily steered the other man to his left side. "Stay to this side of me, okay?"

"You're blind side?" Cullen asked. He looked up at the qunari and thought for a moment he might have been a bit insensitive, "Er, I mean…"

Bull chuckled, either missing or ignoring the tactlessness of the expression. "Exactly. I'd feel better, knowing there's someone I can trust on this side of me, where I can't see. But," Bull turned his head far enough to glare at Cullen around his eyepatch, "That doesn't mean I'm going to need a lot of protection or anything. I'm no damsel in distress. Just stay to this side, so I'll know where you are, and stay away…"

"Stay away from its tail, yes, yes," he finished, somewhat impatiently.

The two men hunched lower as they moved, closing in on the dragon and wanting as much cover from the scrub brush as possible. "Something bothering you, Commander?" Bull asked as they paused beside a boulder. His voice was low, quiet, a rumble of distant thunder.

"No, well, I mean, of course not, only that, it seems to me, well, not to sound overly full of myself, but…"

"Is there a point to this?" Bull sighed, eyeing the dragon warily. The massive chest was continuing to rise and fall in the slow, steady rhythm since they'd first spotted the creature. Bull hoped that meant it was still asleep. "Or do you simply like hearing yourself sputter?"

Cullen glared at the side of Bull's head, but of course the look wasn't noticed. "I know Peredura's fought dragons before, and she seems to have a good head on her shoulders, when it comes to tactical situations like these."

"She's a natural," Bull agreed, a teensy-weeny bit of fatherly pride slipping into his voice.

They started moving again, edging in even closer, their voices dropping in volume even more. "But, well, not to put myself forward or anything, and I'm not questioning your skills or abilities, it just seems to me," he hefted his shield, "that in this particular situation, I might be better suited to taking punishment than you are."

Bull gave a quiet chuckle, no insult felt. "You mean the tank, huh?"

"'Tank'?" Cullen repeated, a bit lost.

The qunari scratched at the side of his nose, adjusting the strap of his eyepatch. "Ah, it just means, the one in a fight that can go in and take a beating."

"That's what I'm getting at, yes," he agreed, nodding. They drew to the edge of the nest-like area the dragon had made for itself and knelt down to wait for Peredura's signal that she and Dorian were in place.

"But… I don't get it…" Bull looked over at him, "You are the tank."

Cullen shook his head. "No, the… 'tank,' as you put it, is the one who goes in first, distracts the beast, lets it beat on him, while the real danger comes up from behind and deals the deathblow. The typical one-two punch."

"One-two?" Now it was Bull's turn to be unfamiliar with terminology.

"In fisticuffs. You know," Cullen made a pair of fists, a bit awkward with the shield on his arm, and mimicked his words, "You feint with your right to draw your opponent's focus this way, then land with your left and knock him out. One. Two. In this case, Peredura has you as the tank, and me as the deathblow. One-two."

Bull smiled, "Ah, now I get it. But you don't." He turned back to keep his eye on the dragon. "I'm still the deathblow. Think of it as a one-two-three punch."

Again Cullen glared at him, and again he was ignored. "One-two-three?"

"Right, I go in first as the feint, drawing its attention, then you come up from the side as the bluff, making it think you're the deathblow. But then, when the dragon turns to you, I step in and kill it. One-two-three."

"That's…" Cullen's voice grew too loud, and Bull had to hush him with a gesture. Cullen dropped his face with his tone and tried again. "That's simply not how it's done," he insisted. "That's… unconventional."

"That's Peredura," Bull agreed.

He thought about it for a moment, and had to—reluctantly—agree that Bull was right. "Yes, it is, isn't it. Are they in position yet?" he looked across the back of Bull's broad shoulders, trying to spot where she and Dorian were among the brush and boulders.

"Nearly. Why don't you put that shiny shield of yours to good use, and signal her that we're ready. And I'll start gearing up for my sprint."

"Sprint?" Cullen carefully positioned his shield, catching the rays of the sun and reflecting them up the side of the hill to the general area where the other two were setting up. "Don't you mean sneak? Surely you're not thinking of charging that beast while it's asleep."

"Got to. See all those bones around it's nest," Bull gestured, "And further out, across the valley floor. Dragons have very sensitive hearing. I might be able to get, oh, within fifteen yards of that thing, before one of my big feet lands on a bone and snaps it. That's not nearly close enough for me to reach it, but it's more than close enough for it to reach me. Now, if I'm running," he shifted to his haunches, readying himself, "I'll be sure to hit a bone a lot sooner, but I'll also be moving a lot faster. Better chance of reaching that thing before it's fully awake and aware of what's coming. There's the signal," he nodded at the arrow arcing through the sky, some sort of spell of Dorian's making it glow red.

Cullen nodded. "Good fortune, Bull."

"Hey, thanks. You too, Commander," he acknowledged with the warmth of camaraderie. Then he leaned over a little too far and teased, "Wanna give me a kiss for good luck?"

Cullen fixed him with his best glare, "Move your arse, soldier."

Bull took off, his quiet chuckle fading away in the wake of his leaving.

Cullen waited, keeping himself still with an iron will, as Bull propelled himself towards the massive beast. He didn't flinch when the qunari's baritone voice rang out with a battle cry of something in qunlat. He did shift a little when the dragon stirred, awoken by the bellowing and the pounding of heavy feet. He felt his cry of warning burble up from his chest and into his throat before he could close off the airway and keep silent.

Damn, but Bull was courageously reckless.

—One—

He'd seen qunari fight before, in Kirkwall, against he and other templars. It had been a messy battle, a hard battle, as qunari didn't surrender except in death. He remembered one man who'd kept fighting—even after losing one arm at the elbow and the hand off the other, even after being pinned to a market stall with a spear, the damn thing kept kicking at anyone who approached him. One of Cullen's templars was knocked out cold for three whole days after taking a heel to the side of the head. The qunari had finally been put down with an arrow to his jugular. Messy. Unnecessary. But very much qunari.

Bull was the same way, impetuous, fearless, holding nothing back. He charged headfirst into battle, swinging that great battle axe of his, using it to block the dragon's blows as much as to strike at the softer scales of its underbelly. As for the fire breath, Bull dodged each fireball with agility one wouldn't expect from a man his size. It was impressive, the dance of a highly skilled warrior, a great master at arms.

And it was also Cullen's cue. The dragon was fully engaged—and enraged—with the qunari. Cullen used the distraction to run his own race, his frame not as massive as Bull's but just as heavy thanks to his armor and weapons. His pounding feet sent reverberations through the ground towards the dragon, alerting the beast to the approaching threat.

—Two—

The dragon turned, but not before Cullen landed three broad strokes at the back of the foreleg's knee joint. The dragon forgot about Bull, lifting the hurt limb up and out of Cullen's reach and rearing back it's head to bellow in anger and pain. Cullen had managed to draw blood, a shallow scratch between some of the scales, but it was enough to sting. And to get the beast to belch fire at him. He raised his shield and held his ground, waiting for the inevitable roasting inside his armor. But that never came.

Cullen felt Dorian's magic spell surround him, enveloping him in a bluish haze and causing gooseflesh to break out all across his skin—an odd sensation beneath his armor. He'd been trained to protect mages, he'd been tortured into hating them, and only recently he'd come to accept them. But, damn, he still didn't like the feel of magic, even if it was saving his ass.

No longer having to hide behind his shield, he poked his head out to get his bearings. Though it was hard to see through the fire that fell like hail around his body, he could tell there was nothing within easy reach of his sword. Bull, however, was now ignored and had a clean shot at the dragon's chest.

—Three—

That's what Bull had called it, anyway. The one-two-three punch. Easy. Simple. Yeah, right. Apparently somebody forgot to tell the dragon that this was where it was supposed to die. Bull's massive axe swung at the beast's chest, a tip catching for a moment beneath a scale, before the axe harmlessly bounced off and away and nearly ripped itself from Bull's hands. Cullen felt relief when the flames stopped falling across his shoulders, only to feel concern when the dragon turned its focus back to Bull. Seeing as he was momentarily ignored, however, he returned to trying to cut the tendons in the dragon's foreleg.

Nope, this wasn't going to be easy.

Peredura was having the same thought. She had known from the moment she realized there was a dragon nearby, that they would have to kill it. She had known from that very first moment, that she would have to send men she cared for into battle, a battle that might maim or even kill one of them. She had known from the first sight of the creature, that there would be no choice for her, for any of them. This had to be done. Regardless of the cost.

And it wasn't that she hadn't faced a dragon before—she had. So had Bull, and Dorian, and she was fairly sure Cullen had, too. But she had seen Bull and Dorian fight before, she knew their abilities, their strengths, their limitations. Cullen, however, was a wild card. Though she knew he had talent—he must have to have reached such a lofty rank at such a young age—and she had seen him train others—give direction and advice and support…

But, damn it, seeing Cullen engulfed in flames like that, had nearly stopped her heart. She didn't spare a second to thank Dorian for his spell; there was no way to convey the deep level of gratitude she felt at that moment. But she did make a promise to herself to leave Cullen out of any future adventuring. It was far too distracting for her, seeing her love throw himself in harm's way. She knew it was his nature, his training, his calling even—but she didn't have to like it.

One of her arrows arced gracefully through the air, and she found herself holding her breath as it curved and began its downward journey, falling gently at first, then gaining momentum, her aim true…

But the beast wasn't cooperating. It moved its head at the last moment, turning back to Cullen, and the arrow bounced harmlessly off of a horn rather than sinking into an eye socket. It wasn't even enough to distract the dragon from swinging its foreleg at him, striking his shield with enough force to send Cullen staggering. He kept his feet, and his shield, and even managed a backhanded swipe at the wound now oozing behind its knee. But she felt useless, her arrow having done nothing to help the situation.

"Rotten luck, that. But try again, my dear. The only way you'll never succeed is if you never try." Dorian was sweating already, his concentration as strained as his voice.

"That…" she paused, another arrow already notched and aimed, "That made absolutely no sense." Feeling slightly miffed at the mage, she let the arrow loose, and it flew a little off target this time. But this time the dragon cooperated, turning its head back around and opening its maw, intending to breathe fire on Bull, and instead getting an arrow into the back of its throat. It gagged, choked, and belched a fire ball harmlessly off to the side to burn the arrow out of its throat.

"Nice shot!"

It would have been, she thought to herself, if she had intended it to happen. But all she had going for her right then was lucky happenstance. She was too far away from the fight to do any real good; it was taking too long for her arrows to land. "I need to get closer," she thought out loud.

"Then get closer," Dorian answered.

She turned to blink at him. "I can't. I'm supposed to be covering you…"

"You and I both know that's not the best use of your time or abilities right now." He paused in his lecture to swing his staff around, his eyes focused on Bull, and with a grunt for the effort, he cast a spell and protected Bull from the next belch of flame. "As much as I hate to admit my shortcomings, I can't keep this up all day. It's already been nearly an hour we've been pounding at this monster."

"An hour," she repeated, quietly, studying the situation, surveying their progress, as little as it was. Bull had managed to catch a few swipes in between some scales, but never deep enough to do any real harm to the beast. Cullen had more success, even now his sword swung again at the back of the foreleg, slicing deeper, widening the wound, and the blood coming out changed in force from an ooze to a trickle.

The dragon noticed his progress, too, and screamed a roar of outrage.

"Ice!" she shouted, suddenly inspired.

"Beg your pardon?" Dorian swung his staff and protected Cullen from the sudden kick of the dragon's back leg at his side.

"It's a fire dragon. The last one we fought, well, Solas used an ice spell on it, and hurt it. Badly. I remember he muttered something about fire dragons being susceptible to ice." She turned to Dorian, such a hopeful look on her face that he was loathe to crush it. "Do you know any…"

"No, sorry, Peredura," he felt like a heel as her face fell, but he couldn't lie to her. "I might be able to dredge up one or two from my memory, but my field of expertise is more in the realm of, erm, well, necromancy. Death and spirits and the like." He cast another spell on Bull, keeping the dragon from biting off his leg. "I'm not versed on fire or ice spells."

"But you might remember one or two?" she pressed, unwilling or unable to give up on the idea.

And, damn it, Dorian really couldn't deny her. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime," he gave her shoulder a shove, "Do us all a favor, and get to where you can do some good against that thing. I'll protect you."

She flashed him a smile, thought about giving his cheek a kiss, then remembered she was wearing a helmet. Instead she raced off, jumping over smaller boulders and skittering around heavier brush, until she felt she was close enough to make the last of her arrows count.

She was also close enough to clearly hear the din of the battle. She hadn't thought about it before, but she thought about it now. Bull and Cullen calling out to each other, coordinating their efforts, planning their next move. There was the thundering stomp as the dragon moved and shifted its feet, trying to protect itself, trying to murder the things attacking it. And the air positively hissed with the heat of fire.

The air was shattered as a shower of icicles shot overhead, breaking through the heat, and just missing the dragon's shoulder. Yes, she exclaimed to herself, or maybe she had yelled it, too excited to notice or care. She fitted an arrow to her bow and aimed, carefully, as the dragon tried to discern where the ice had come from.

Her arrow let loose. She had predicted the dragon would spot Dorian, now that he was overtly attacking it. She had predicted the dragon would rear back to take a deep breath, in preparation for breathing fire. And, as predicted, her arrow flew to the place where she anticipated its head would be…

There wasn't a sound as the missile embedded itself into the eye socket up to the fletching.

"Way to go, Boss!" Bull yelled, even before Cullen could turn and discover her so close to the fight. "Now, move your ass back there!"

She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, the joy and exhilaration over the excellent shot lending her far too much bravado. But the next moment Cullen was there, wrapping one arm around her while the other raised his shield over their heads.

It was eery. Dorian's spell protected them both, but to stand there, unmoving, while fire fell around them in an amber waterfall of death, watching the flames pool and puddle at their feet before flowing out over the ground—she wanted to wet herself. But as the moment passed, as the danger faded, as the flames went out with a flicker, she lifted her face up and gave Cullen a somewhat sheepish look.

He dropped his sword, his fingers pulling at the stays of her cheek guards, then at the stays of his, freeing their mouths for a quick kiss. "Good shot. Now get the fuck out of here! I can't focus on the dragon if I'm worried about you being in danger."

"And you think I can!?" she countered, kissed him back, but spun and started back up the hillside towards Dorian.

Damn, but he loved that woman!

Assured that she was moving away from danger and not towards it, he returned his attention to the beast. It was rearing and roaring, its wounded foreleg swiping at the wounded eye, but in a futile gesture. Even if it could get the arrow out, the eye was already blinded.

"It's gonna be pissed now," Bull warned, "Dangerous, unpredictable. This is where it gets fun! Taarsidath-an halsaam!"

Cullen rolled his eyes, having no idea what Bull had just shouted in qunlat, but fairly sure he didn't want to know. He picked up his sword and turned back to the dragon, readying himself for the next round.

He was not expecting anything of the sort of what happened next. Instead of breathing fire, or stomping the ground, or even swiping with its tail—which Cullen kept watching out for—it reared back, exposing its massive chest, and began beating its wings. A whirlwind spun up, surrounding the dragon. Cullen could feel the wind pull at the backs of his knees, but not hard enough to stagger him. He waited, wondering what it was doing, and why, and wishing Bull would give the signal for their next attack.

Then he heard a cry of alarm behind him. He turned and saw that, further out from the dragon, the wind had grown stronger, like the winds of a hurricane with the dragon at the eye of the storm. Peredura was caught in this outer wind, her bow ripped from her grasp, one hand clinging stubbornly to a boulder while the wind lifted her off her feet. Before he could cry out with his own alarm, Bull's voice rang across the valley.

"DORIAN!"

Cullen looked in the direction Bull's face was pointed and easily found the mage, his robes flashing as he spun downhill, flailing uncontrollably and unsuccessfully at every rock and brush to try to halt his fatal tumble. His staff was gone, no doubt torn from his hands as Peredura's bow from hers. Only he hadn't been as lucky to find a purchase as she had been. He continued to roll and bounce down the slope, hopeless, helpless, rushing towards them and his doom.

Peredura's free hand reached out and made a grab for the mage as he plunged past. Both of them cried at at the sudden halt, Peredura feeling like her arm had gotten dislocated, Dorian feeling the same about his ankle. It was ignoble, being caught by his foot, his robes flying up over his head and exposing everything underneath—thankfully he did wear clothing beneath his robes, leggings at least, though he hadn't bothered with a tunic.

Yet at least he was alive and safe, if only Peredura could hold on.

Both Cullen and Bull had that same thought at the same time. Both turned as one back to the dragon. Both began attacking the beast, beating at its legs and belly and anything they could reach. Bull's axe finally penetrated with a degree of success between the scales, slicing a gash and causing blood to flow. The blade came free, but he didn't stop, spinning around and swinging his axe to take another swipe at the wound. And another. And another.

The dragon gave up beating its wings, sensing the more immediate danger was already too close. It dropped back onto all fours, back onto its belly. With a shout Bull jumped back out of the way, keeping himself from being crushed beneath the dragon's weight, but losing his axe in the process.

Peredura shook herself, thankful the gale force winds had stopped, and leg go of Dorian's ankle. "You alright?" she asked, gaining her feet and brushing off a few of the twigs and bits of grass clinging to her thighs.

"Only thing wounded is my pride," Dorian quipped, trying to reach his feet. He took one step and winced, immediately lifting one foot and rubbing at the ankle, "Oh, and this. But I'd much rather be limping right now, then finding myself inside a dragon's stomach."

"Agreed," she nodded. Automatically she reached for her bow, but quickly remembered she was weaponless. "Kaffas."

"Me, too," Dorian moaned. "This is the first time in, well, ages that I've been without my staff in hand." Then he looked at her and commanded, "Do not say it."

"Nah, too obvious," she agreed. "Can you still perform magic without your staff?"

"I can," he nodded, turning just in time to see the dragon try to flop down on top of Bull. He gasped, holding his breath until he saw that Bull was free, though now as weaponless as they were. He tried to cover his slip with a cough, "Damn wind's left some dust in my throat. My spells won't be as powerful as before, but I can still…"

"DUCK!" she cried, but it was too late. The dragon had decided that, with Bull out of the picture and Cullen also trying to stagger back out of range of its bellyflop, it could focus its attention on the two attackers who were further up the hill. Dorian's back had been to the dragon, his focus on Peredura while he answered her, so he didn't notice the fireball coming towards them until it was too late.

"Dorian!" Peredura cried again, even as the fireball landed inches from him and exploded on impact. The mage was knocked off his feet and through the air, his limbs as limp as a rag doll, his eyes rolling back up into his head, his robes aflame. She had a far-too-perfect view of it all as he arced through the air to slam into her. Together they fell back against the slope, and without pausing to think she wrapped her arms around him and began rolling until they were safe behind the dubious cover of a nearby boulder. Immediately she was up and kneeling over him, all but ripping off her jacket to use it to beat out the flames.

"Dorian!" she smacked. "Dorian!" she smacked again. "Dorian! Answer me!" she smacked yet again.

"Stop!" he held up a hand in surrender, but she ignored him. Getting an answer out of him, knowing he was alive and conscious, she gave off beating the flames to tear his robes right off him. He struggled briefly, but whether it was with her or against her she couldn't tell. Then the robes were off and she was flinging them to the side away from them.

"Dorian?" she asked a little quieter, the adrenaline and fear lending some volume to her voice, but her mind trying to calm herself down. She cupped his face and leaned over him, feeling a little trickle of blood beneath her fingers on either side of his head, "Dorian?"

"Yes," he blinked at her, "That sounds about right. I'll let you know for sure once the bells stop ringing in my ears and I can think."

With Dorian somewhat alright, she turned just far enough to look over her shoulder at the dragon to see how it and the other two were faring. It wasn't good. The dragon had leaned back to pluck Bull's axe from its chest and throw it aside. Bull went chasing after it, knowing he'd need it to fight, but unfortunately that left Cullen to face the beast alone.

"No time," she muttered, grabbing Dorian's bare shoulder and yanking him to a sitting position. "Cast your spell. Hurry. Cullen needs you!"

"Cullen…?" Dorian repeated, blinking unfocused eyes in her direction, "Spell? What spell?"

"Your protection spell! Cast it! Hurry or he'll die!" Her fingernails bit into his shoulder with the intensity of her fear.

Bull reached his axe and spun to return to the fight, but he was already too far away.

Cullen swung his sword at the wounded foreleg, finally slicing deep enough to severe the tendon.

The dragon roared and lifted the hobbled leg up and out of danger, its body twisting around to glare at Cullen.

Peredura gave Dorian a harsh shake. "Snap out of it! Cast your spell! Now!"

Dorian did as commanded, not sure why, not even sure where he was aiming. He couldn't see, his vision doubled or even tripled, it was hard to tell. But he did his best, drawing on the magic reserves inside him, pulling at the fabric of the fade, calling on the protective spirits, and blindly throwing the magic out to encompass…

"Fasta vass!" she moaned, "You protected the dragon!"

"The what?" Dorian blinked owlishly. Damn, but how he wished the blurry colors would solidify themselves into some short of shape that would make sense.

Peredura didn't answer, she couldn't answer, her heart in her throat. The dragon, encompassed within Dorian's protective spell, was about to attack Cullen. He swung his sword, striking the dragon smartly across the snout. It was hard to tell who was more surprised, the dragon when it found it hadn't even gotten a scratch, or Cullen when his sword bounced harmlessly off the maw of the creature. He had used all his strength in that swing, a strength that was now turned against him. His sword went flying off in one direction, his arm another, and his numbed fingers were forced to let go of his weapon. He allowed himself only a grunt for the pain, time moving too fast, too much about to happen. The dragon reared back and lowered its mouth once more and vomited fire out of its lungs.

Cullen dropped to one knee and raised his shield, but the expectant nimbus of Dorian's magic never arrived. Instead he felt heat, a suffocating heat that smothered the breath in his lungs, a burning heat that roasted him inside his armor, an unending heat that fell all around him from the edges of his shield. He snarled and sneered at the danger and the doom, and in what he believed to be his final act of defiance, he made himself stand up against the flow of flame and ram his shield inside the dragon's mouth.

The monster suddenly stopped. Though the edges of the shield couldn't penetrate past Dorian's spell, those same edges could wedge themselves tightly between the dragon's teeth. It stopped breathing fire to try to figure out what had happened, sitting back on its haunches and giving its head a little shake to dislodge the offending bit of metal.

Unfortunately, Cullen's arm was still strapped tightly to the shield, and the rest of him to his arm. He dangled from the dragon's mouth, out of sight but not out of danger, as it shook and shuddered and tried to remove the shield. The uninjured foreleg came around from the other side, trying to pick the teeth clean, and Peredura knew she had to act fast. Her eyes fell on Cullen's sword, lying forgotten on the ground, and a plan began to form even as she started moving.

"Cast your spell on me," she said to Dorian. "Right here, right in front of you, as strong as you can make it." She grabbed his hands and held them to either side of her head, willing his vision to clear enough to see her, or at least enough to allow his spell to land on her this time. He didn't argue or question her, he simply did as she commanded, too befuddled to truly care.

As soon as she began to feel the spell take effect, she turned and raced off. "Bull!" she shouted next, seeing him running up from the side. "Swing at its belly! Shallow strokes! Keep swinging! Wear the barrier down!"

She bent down mid-step and scooped up Cullen's sword, hardly missing a beat as her feet pounded closer and closer to the dragon.

"Got it, Boss!" Bull also didn't question, didn't argue, no matter what his thoughts were on the matter. He reached the dragon first and began swinging his axe, spinning round and round and round, hitting that magical barrier and not the dragon, but making the magic use itself up in protecting the belly of the beast.

The dragon finally got the shield free, man and metal falling to the ground like a discarded wad of spit. Peredura refused to look at Cullen, refused to acknowledge he was still, refused to consider what might have happened. Instead she planned her route up the blind side of the dragon, jumping to grab the talon of the injured foreleg, swinging her weight up as she pulled the foot down, keeping her legs together as she vaulted over the shoulder, letting go of the talon to grasp at a horn.

It wasn't pretty, but it worked. She landed on the neck of the dragon, just behind its head, right at the base of its skull. It hardly noticed her lighter weight, its attention more focused on Bull and his continuous slicing attacks at its belly. The barrier was thinning, growing fainter by the moment. She wasn't sure if it had something more to do with the dragon being so much larger that the magic couldn't cover it all for as long as it could cover one of them. Or if it was being beaten and worn down beneath Bull's impressive onslaught, far fiercer and longer sustained than the dragon's own attacks. And, quite frankly, she didn't care. The fact remained, the barrier was thinning, and her's was fully intact. She wrapped her legs around it and waited.

It lowered its head to snap at Bull, the scales parting slightly at the base of the skull, the barrier flickering out, and Peredura had her chance. With two hands she gripped the sword. With all her strength she drove the blade, point first, up and between the scales. With all her breath she screamed in rage and ferocity and fear and determination.

Something hot and slightly sticky spilled out of the wound, something her mind refused to identify, something that smelled of rancid meat and rotten eggs, something dark and slimy and staining as it poured over her arms and legs. She retched, purely a reflexive action, but held on fast. The dragon thrashed and roared, shaking its head, only to work the blade deeper into its brainpan. With a strangled, cut-off sort of hiccough, it suddenly stopped in mid-swish, head tilted at a funny sort of angle, and time slowed in a macabre sort of way. Then the air began to deflate out of its lungs, the body folding in on itself, the neck following to roll itself across the floor of the valley, the head landing with a snap at the end.

Dust was kicked up from the force of the impact. Bull coughed and held a hand up to his eyes but refused to turn away. He had to watch, he had to make sure, he had to see for himself…

There! Peredura was standing, a little unsteady on her feet, but she was standing, her magical barrier glowing faintly. She appeared out of the dust a good fifteen feet beyond the dragon's head, a furrow of rolled over brush in her wake. She leaned over and braced one hand on her thigh, waved the dust away from her face, coughed and spat it out of her mouth. Her expression was neither victorious nor scared, but more a numb sort of calmness as she struggled to come to grips with all that had happened in the past few moments. She looked up as Bull approached.

"Damn, Boss, that was… BAD ASS!"

She wanted to laugh. She wanted so badly to enjoy the moment and savor the victory, but she knew she wouldn't be able to relax, to let herself loose, until everyone was accounted for and safe. She stood up straight, her demeanor confident and commanding, while inwardly her heart was racing with worry. "Go check on Dorian; I left him behind one of the boulders on the slope somewhere. I need to find Cullen and make sure he's…" Her voice grew strangled as another cloud of dust and smoke drifted past, borne along by the light breeze, making her cough and choke, and also providing cover for her emotions. Anxiously she peered through the haze, completely missing Bull's acknowledgment of her orders or his comforting hand on her shoulder before he raced off to track down Dorian. Her eyes narrowed as she peered through the aftermath of battle, spinning in place, trying to remember where she had last seen Cullen. But she was lost, completely turned around and disoriented, and wherever he had ended up, he was effectively out of sight. Her heart now hammering at her ribcage, trying to crawl up out of her throat, she started to circle around the dragon's corpse, looking for any sign—a groove in the dirt, a broken buckle, a discarded weapon or shield—that would tell her Cullen was still alive.

* * *

Cullen was cold.

Not that he hadn’t felt cold before.

He knew the cold of winter, having grown up in Honnleath so close to the mountains, playing in the snow with his siblings. He knew the cold of death, having fought in more than one battle, and having lost more than one fellow soldier to the sword or the claw. He even knew the cold of betrayal, after all that had happened first with the mages in Kinloch, then with his very own Knight-Commander in Kirkwall.

He even knew the coolness of a woman’s touch, of Peredura’s timid fingers against his fevered skin.

But this was different. This wasn’t so much a cold of sensation, as it was a cold of… nothing…

He feared the worst, which was always pragmatic for an unknown situation; fear the worst, prepare for it, then no matter what is happening, one will be far better equipped to handle it. Yet he wouldn’t let himself feel the fear; prepare for it, certainly, act on it, if necessary, but never let it rule his heart. He kept his breathing slow, his heartbeat steady, and began to try to move, to test his limits, to explore his surroundings, to define his situation.

Something hindered him. Something kept him still. Something kept him from sitting up or rolling onto his side or even…

Even seeing. Maker’s breath! He couldn’t use his eyes. He couldn’t see. He was blind!

Something must have slipped through his control, some sign or sound of his distress, for in the next moment a different coldness fell across him, a familiar and longed-for touch, the coolness of Peredura’s fingers on his fevered skin. Was he sick again, he wondered, manfully striving to conquer his panic while he reasoned out his predicament. It took him several moments—several very long moments for Peredura, but he couldn't have known that—before her words, her voice, finally penetrated his ears and soaked into the sponge-like gray matter of his brain.

“Cullen? Do you understand me? Don’t try to move, not yet, not until you finish healing.”

“…healing…” he managed to catch that last word, the others leaking through his mind, his thoughts, as quickly as they had entered. “…healing…” He repeated, desperately clinging to something that would make sense, something that would explain what had happened, something that would stave off the emotions threatening to unman him. It was like holding onto water, or grains of sand, or even the wind. But, eventually, thanks largely to Peredura’s patience and persistence, he began to remember more of what happened, bit by bit, drop by drop, grain by grain.

“…the dragon…?” he sighed, memory becoming clear as the mist lifted. Listening to her gentle voice helped, the husky alto tones, the way she slightly slurred her ‘r’s. Not that he paid attention to the words themselves, but as she recounted their latest adventure, he could see it play out in his mind, as if her words unlocked the past few hours. Heading back to Skyhold, discovering the dragon, he and Bull fighting it close up, she and Dorian staying back out of direct harm, Cullen taking aim at the dragon’s snout and his sword bouncing harmlessly off and out of his grasp, the dragon reaching down with its maw open, giving him an unhindered view inside the darkness of its throat. Then the spark, the flicker, of amber/orange light, reflecting off of the back of its mouth, before it belched forth… “Fire!”

“Sh, Cullen, please, it’s alright. It’s over. Everything’s alright, now. The dragon’s dead. We’re safe. It’s over.”

He had almost managed to sit up, or at least struggle enough to feel the blanket restricting his movements. He collapsed back onto the bedroll, barely managing to keep his breath steady, as it all coming back in vivid detail. Ironic, that, how everything became clear now that he was blind. Yet he wouldn’t let himself indulge in a huff of self-pity. “Are you safe? And Bull? Dorian?” One arm had come free of the blanked, the hand flailing around until he came into contact with something soft and warm.

She captured his hand, holding it close to her unblemished cheek, sparing it a kiss before she answered.“I wasn’t hurt, no more than a few scrapes and bruises, anyway. The Iron Bull is fine; he’s taking care of Dorian,” she spoke. Her hand dropped away to cup the back of his neck, and something hard and curved, like a ring or a circle, pressed against his lower lip, “Like I’m supposed to be taking care of you. Now drink up. You haven’t had enough of this yet for it to heal all of your injuries.”

“What…?” he began, but as his mouth opened, she tipped the bottle, and something thick and smelling slightly floral dripped onto his tongue.

“Swallow,” she commanded, and he obeyed. “Good, now ask your next question, and I’ll answer while you drink some more healing potion.”

That had been his first question, what was she pressing against his mouth and making him drink. He cast about for another question, all but overrun with a million of them, and the darkest one, the most fearful one, slipped out. “Am I blind?”

“What?!” there was a tone of surprised alarm in her voice, and for a moment she gave him a reprieve from the potion. Then she answered, “No,” and a soft rustling sound of silken strands, as if she was shaking her head and her long brown hair was sweeping back and forth across her shoulders. “No, no, no, Cullen, your eyes are fine. Trust me. They’re the same beautiful, mysteriously deep hazel that have captivated me for months. Believe me; I’ve checked already. Your eyes are fine.”

“Then…” his words were interrupted by more healing potion. Remembering his end of the bargain, he took another mouthful and swallowed before asking, “Then why can’t I see?”

He heard her sigh, thought she might be hedging as she tried to think up some sort of excuse, but he could tell by the tone of her voice, when she answered him, that she was speaking the truth. “Your face was burned, just the skin, and not bad enough to blister, though it is a bit worse than a sunburn. Dorian has some, erm, goop he uses, for wounds, something that helps to keep them from scarring. It also helps to numb the pain. I, ah,” he heard her pause, and the embarrassment in her voice when she continued, “I might have used a bit too much on your face, but I didn’t want you to hurt, or to scar.” Again, there was more to her voice, as if she would, well, spare him—pain or scarring or both, she would spare him something she had suffered herself. He felt such an act was foolish, he minded neither pain nor scars, but she cleared her throat and made him swallow the last of the potion as she finished explaining. “Anyway, I wrapped a bandage around your eyes, because the skin was burned, even though your eyes are fine, but I didn’t want you to open your eyes and get the, um, salve or whatever he called it, into your eyes. Now, lie still,” her hand spread out over his chest, and he realized there was something wrapped around his torso, “And let the potion do its thing.”

“What else?” he pressed, wanting to know it all, “What other injuries do I have?” When she didn’t answer right away, his hand gripped her arm, fearing she might try to escape without giving him an answer, and insisted, “You have my whole left side immobilized, from my shoulder to my leg. What is it? What’s wrong? How badly am I hurt?”

“It’s not that bad,” she denied. He increased the pressure of his fingers, not enough to hurt, but enough to get his message across. Her hand covered his, squeezing back, reassuringly. “Honest, Cullen. Nothing’s broken, as far as we could tell. The Iron Bull did have to set your shoulder, it must have gotten dislocated, you know, from when you were hanging from your shield, dangling beneath the dragon’s mouth while it was swinging its head around trying to spit you out.”

There might have been a bit of reproachfulness in her tone, but he chose to ignore it, preferring to wince with the returning memory.

“You might have gotten a few cracked ribs, from the landing,” she gave up scolding him, seeing the hurt look on his face, “And your hip was bruised pretty bad, black and blue from here,” she touched just beneath his ribs, “To here,” her fingers moved traced lightly down his side to just above mid-thigh. Maker, but what that touch did to him. Suddenly his leggings felt very tight, very restrictive, and far too pinching.

“Sorry,” she jerked her hand away, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I forgot, but of course, the bruise will still hurt to be touched, the potion needs time to work, sorry.”

“You apologize too much,” his breath was heavy as he calmed her, relieved she hadn’t notice his reaction. He cocked his right leg in an effort to conceal any, er, anything. Not to mention, trying to shift and adjust himself into a less pinching position. “I’m alright. It’s alright. Is that all? What about you? Were you hurt?”

“No, I told you already, just a few scratches and bruises. The same for the Iron Bull. Qunari are fairly thick skinned.”

“And… Dorian?”

He heard her hesitation again. “He got a little, um, singed, when the dragon spit a fireball at him. It didn’t hit him directly, but it did sort of,” she paused, and he felt her hand leave his, her arms making a small wind noise as she waved them through the air, “Well, exploded, really. Knocked him off his feet and into me. I got us to safety, but his robes had caught fire. He’s got a bit of burnt skin, too, like you, worse than a sunburn, but not enough to worry about. Any maybe a concussion; he was a little confused for a bit. But the Iron Bull’s taking good care of him.”

Cullen hummed an agreeable sort of sound, “I can well imagine.”

There might have been a breathy sort of giggle, and for a moment, he wondered what he could have said that was so funny. Then he heard her shift, felt the warmth emanating from her body as she leaned over him, and savored the tickling sensation of her lips pressing a light kiss just in front of his ear—undoubtedly one of the few patches of unburnt skin on his face. “I have to take the first watch tonight, but I’ll check in on you later. Get some rest, let the potion do its work, you’ll be healed by morning.” Then he felt the presence of her body pulling away.

“Pere!” he called softly, not wanting her to go, not wanting to let her go. But the words stopped in his throat, and whatever he had been about to say remained a mystery—to both of them.

He heard what might have been a sniff, something soft and snuffling and all but lost to the darkness that encased him. Then she breathed, “Good night, Cullen. Sweet dreams.”

He sighed, letting go of the last of the day’s adrenaline and fear and fight, “Sweet dreams, Pere.” He heard the heavy sound of tent canvas rustle, the soft padding of her feet fading away, and knew he was alone.

But sleep did not come easy to him. It never did, not since Kinloch.

He tossed and turned, dozing fitfully and far from restfully. At one point, he managed to loosen the bindings holding his arm to his side, shrugging out of them, flinging away the restraints that were making him feel too closed in.

Yet any sort of deep sleep continued to elude him.

It wasn’t until hours later, halfway through the night, that things changed. His semi-wakeful mind registered the sound of voices somewhere beyond the tent, soft and muted but carrying to his ears nonetheless. Then there was the rustle of the tent flap opening, a bit of clomping as something heavy landed on the ground, a hissed curse, another something heavy being discarded…

At long last, he heard the over-weary sigh of someone dead on their feet finally reaching bed. He opened his eyes, having also discarded his blindfold hours before, and could just make out the curves of her shape, a darkness against the backdrop of the moonlight tent canvas. He reached out, sleepy fingers groping, tugging insistently on her tunic, much like a child at his mother’s apron, trying to gain her attention.

Peredura mumbled something, but it wasn’t a protest, more of a question.

Cullen answered, but not with words. He pulled her towards him, pressing his front to her back, molding her body against his. It felt so right, so natural, her form fitting so neatly curled before him. It was as if two pieces, created separately and by different masters, somehow found each other and discovered that they had been shaped specifically for each other, to fit together so perfectly it couldn’t be seen where one piece left off and the other began.

Only then, only after he had her in his arms, only after his nose burrowed deeply into her lilac-scented hair—only then did he finally drift off to sleep.


	24. The Guilt We Carry With Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight spoiler alert for those of you reading my other DA story. Sorry. But, really, knowing how I write, could that part of DAII have turned out any other way?

Taking Adamant Fortress was hard.

Not from a military standpoint, certainly. Commander Cullen was well versed on the theories of war. And the fortress itself, though it had stood the test of time, could not withstand modern day siege equipment—it was simply too old.

No, taking Adamant was hard not because of the fighting, but because he had to let Peredura go.

"I'm stymied here, Commander!," she ground out between her teeth, an arrow in hand and notched to her bow, but pointing uselessly to the ground. "I can't fight like this. I need to be able to see!"

He lifted his eyes briefly from her face, the same moment raising his shield up, almost as if he was putting his arm around her instead of blocking a wayward fireball. She gave him a fleeting smile of gratitude, but quickly returned to her, well, adamant expression from before.

"I understand," he allowed, stalling for time, though he knew it would do no good. Now that the danger had passed, he lowered his shield and glared over the rim of it, only to discover it had been one of their own who had cast a spell haphazardly into the melee. This fight was going to get sloppy, if the Inquisition's forces didn't settle down and follow orders.

"And we're too exposed down here," she added, driving her point home. "Staying on the ground will not work, not for me. We're taking fire from both sides!"

"I concur, but…"

He never got the chance to finish his thought. There was a loud crack, a burst of light and fire above their heads but off to the side, and another chunk of the outer wall came loose. Without a thought, Cullen wrapped his arms around her and spun their bodies, placing his back to the danger. Small bits of debris flew up into the air, exploding from the rubble on the ground as well as from the chunk of wall. Cullen felt something strike the back of his head, making the metal of his helmet ring like a belfry, the force of the impact causing him to stagger a few steps forward. But he kept his feet. Looking up, he saw Dorian standing not too far away, his staff in hand, having finished casting his spell just in time to save Cullen's brains from splattering the inside of his helmet.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Dorian beamed at them as he and Blackwall finished racing up, the other companions in tow. "And what I really mean is, mention it all you want, provided you give the proper embellishment. I did just save your life, after all."

He ignored anything irrelevant to the matter at hand—Dorian's ego could get stroked later—right now they had to finish taking this fortress. He turned back to Peredura, still within his embrace, and by the look on her face still determined to fight. Knowing he had no choice—and hating the fact that he had no choice—he offered, "If you need height, get up on the walls."

She shifted her gaze from his face towards the top of the ramparts. His gaze, however, remained firmly fixed on her features, watching her suppressed fear tighten the corners of her eyes, and the heavy way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She did have that fear of heights, but she was the one complaining just now about not being able to see. "What about the trebuchets?"

Another explosion of rock and fire and dust struck the courtyard, but it was further away this time. Yet Cullen continued to keep himself between her and the danger, at least for as long as he could. He knew he'd have to let her go eventually, but for this moment, while they were standing face-to-face, he would keep her safe. "I've already given the order; they should cease fire soon. But it looks like the heaviest resistance is up on the walls. Hawke's there already with Bull and Varric; but even so, he's going to need all the help he can get. So go, help him take the ramparts."

"What about you?" she pressed, her soft brown eyes coming back down to lock with his hard hazel. Her expression changed as well. It was one thing to face soldiers and mages and demons and fire, but it was quite another thing to face a fear you could not name, that had no form to wound or sword to block. He knew, because he was facing the same indescribable dread.

He gripped her hand, "I'm a soldier, first and foremost, Inquisitor," he used her title, adding an even deeper meaning to his words, "I have a job to do. So do you. Go and take the walls; I'll stay down here with the others and clear out the ground floor. We'll meet up in the main courtyard, as planned."

She hesitated, only a moment, before she bit her lip and nodded. "Keep Dorian and Vivienne with you." When he opened his mouth, she quickly overrode any objections before he could voice them. "I'll take Solas with me; between him and Hawke, I'll have two very capable mages to watch my back. You should have the same."

He nodded, mostly to appease her, but also so she would allow him to speak. "I was only going to say, take Stroud and Cassandra with you, too. No arguments."

She wouldn't have argued over taking the Seeker with her, not if that little smile of relief on her lips was anything to go by. At least she had stopped chewing it. Mindless of the others, she reached up on tiptoe and tapped their helmets together, unable to kiss him due to those same helmets. "I'll meet you in the courtyard. I promise."

"See to it," he growled, but she was already turning away, pulling from his grasp, racing off to a nearby stairway leading upwards. "Solas! Stroud! Seeker! Go with her! Blackwall!" he turned away, trusting the others to follow his orders, and waited for the Warden to reach him. "Blackwall, the Inquisitor is joining Hawke and the others on the ramparts. It's just you and me taking the rest of the fort."

The stoic Grey Warden looked around, his face expressionless beneath the overgrown black beard. "How do you want to split it up? You go left; I go right?"

Cullen smiled, a grim and anticipatory smile, a smile one gives to someone else who understands on him on a level that cannot be brought into words. "Sounds about right. Take Cole and Vivienne with you; I'll take Dorian and Sera. We're all to meet, the Inquisitor as well, in the central courtyard."

Blackwall nodded, "I remember where it is." He turned away then, Vivienne skipping over a wayward chunk of debris to keep up, Cole seeming to materialize out of nowhere to reach his other side. "For the Inquisition!" he cried, brandishing his sword. A cheer rose up, echoing his words, and a fair amount of soldiers raised their own weapons as they raced after him.

"You lot!" Cullen pointed at the next wave of forces coming in through the door. "With me. We will circle around to the west before coming back to the center of the fortress. Leave the buildings untouched; we'll clear them out later and find any stragglers. Our main focus is to reach the courtyard. And remember," he shifted the grip on his sword, needing to remind himself as much as the others, "We're not here to kill Wardens, but to take them alive. They've been cruelly tricked by Corypheus; it's not their fault they turned to blood magic. So try not to kill unless you absolutely have to. Understood!"

It was a command not a question, but the soldiers answered in the affirmative as one voice, "Yes, Ser!"

Cullen was pleased with the discipline and order the soldiers showed; if only the mages with them had as much self-control.

Speaking of which… "Why do I get the feeling that little speech wasn't so much for their benefit, as yours," Dorian's dry hum penetrated his helmet, but he chose to ignore it.

The fortress quickly fell. Not that there wasn't fighting; there was more blood and death than he would have liked, but not all of it was of their doing. The Wardens put up a fair amount of fighting, even killing their own and using the blood to bind demons to them. It was hell, a hell that Cullen had seen before, a hell that he had miraculously survived, a hell he had never expected to experience ever again…

His hands began to shake as his thoughts spiraled down that path, out of control, swept along by a powerful rip current. It would be easy. It would be all too easy. If he only had a little bit of lyrium. He was sure his templar powers would come back to him. Then he could do it himself. He could counter their magic. He could deny them all access to the Fade. He could leave THEM weak and groveling and helpless…

He ground his teeth together and tried to persevere, tried to remind himself that he was part of the Inquisition, he was part of a larger cause, he was not alone this time…

Yet it was all too familiar, all too similar to the last time, battling blood mages, trying to fight his way through them to reach their master, to reach the one who had tricked them… seduced them… betrayed them… Uldred at Kinloch or Erimond at Adamant… It was all the same… It was always the same… Magic never changed…

"Commander!" a voice called out. He spun, searching for whatever danger was about to overcome him, but it was too late. An ice wraith had already cast its spell, the sharpened spikes of ice streaking through the air directly for his chest. He couldn't even raise his shield before he was struck, solidly, directly over his heart. He staggered back beneath the force of the blow, the lip of a well catching the back of his knees, arms flailing as he fought for balance, but amazingly his heart kept beating, undamaged, within his chest. He tucked his chin and stared, more than a little wide-eyed, as the frost and ice shattered apart and off to the side after striking an almost invisible barrier of protective magic. The next moment, he saw an arrow arc gracefully through the air, and gruesomely buried itself up to the fletching in the throat of the demon. The stream of ice stopped as suddenly as it had started, the demon collapsing in on itself and dissolving into dust, leaving Cullen to remain standing alone.

Alone. Suddenly, his helmet was too tight, the air too dead. He needed to feel—to assure himself—he was not trapped within some tiny enclosed space. He fumbled with the straps and buckles, his sword and shield hindering his endeavor, building his frustration. His fingers felt thick and awkward as he all but tore the fasteners apart in an effort to take off his helmet and BREATHE.

"Gotcha, ice-tits!" the irreverent quip penetrated the fuzz around his brain. He pressed his shaking hands against his thighs and blinked, clearing his vision in time to see Dorian come up to his side, and Sera hopping down from the crossarm over the well. The two of them stood to either side, flanking him, halfway between protecting him and joining him. He looked from one to the other and felt… well, felt gratitude, and not a small amount of sheepishness. No, Adamant wasn't the same as Kinloch, not quite anyway. This time, looking at Sera, he was not alone. This time, looking at Dorian, there were mages on both sides.

His voice was heavy and thick, almost unable to speak—not because the dry desert air was filling his lungs with dust, not because what he wanted to say was distasteful, but because he actually, honestly, felt it so strongly.

"Thank you."

Sera smirked at him, "Sounded like it hurt, sayin' that, dinn't?"

"Sera," Dorian's voice had a warning tone to it. He could see the pain on Cullen's face, and imagined the battle he fought within himself while fighting this battle without. And he could also see the tide turning, the man winning his struggle against his internal demons. A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, and he absently wondered what had happened to the Commander's shield.

"We should get going," Cullen commented, sounding like himself again, picking his sword up and making sure there were no nicks or dings in the metal—he'd chastise himself later for having let it fall to the ground during a fight. "The Inquisitor has already reached the courtyard. No doubt Blackwall is near there, too. If we don't hurry, we'll miss all the action."

Dorian knew Cullen had kept careful track of Peredura's progress along the ramparts, as had he kept track of Bull's position, and both of them for the same reasons. "Lead on, Commander," Dorian swept with his hand, "We've got your back." His words were as heartfelt as Cullen's had been, both men exchanging a look almost too personal to share.

"Wha'? Did I miss som'in?" Sera asked.

"No, you didn't miss a thing, Sera," Cullen dead-panned, turning back to give her a nod of gratitude as well, "You hit the demon squarely."

"Too righ', I did. Your knickers can thank me later." When he stared at her, not quite following, she added, "Fer keepin' you from soilin' 'em. Honestly, don't know wha' she sees in you, you're so dense…"

Cullen wisely gave up the conversation at that point.

They hadn't made it much further before all three of them realized they were too late. Cullen didn't know which chilled his blood more: the unworldly cry of the archdemon speaking without words of horrors unimaginable, or its hideously black shadow streaking across the sky to block out the sun. But archdemon or no, he did not cease fighting, he did not cease his struggle to reach the courtyard, to return to Peredura's side. After all, fear was only an emotion, he told himself, something intangible, but something that could be dealt with. Something he had to deal with. For her sake. For all their sakes. Looking around at the men and women following them, he knew what he had to do.

He stepped forward, sword raised, the weak sunlight magnified by the blade, and cried, "For the Inquisition! For the Herald of Andraste!"

The fearful silence that had fallen over the soldiers at the sight of the archdemon was replaced by the heartening cheer as they took up his cry.

"Do you ever get the feeling," Dorian leaned across behind Cullen's back to comment to Sera, "That we're surrounded by bloodthirsty savages?"

She fitted another arrow to her bow, her large eyes even wider as she followed the archdemon flying overhead. "Nope. Jus' been thinkin', pisspants, friggin', fuckballs, shittyknickers, too big for britches… What's that one you use, fishy cough-ass?"

"Vishante kaffas."

"Tha' too!"

Cullen heard their exchange, heard the fear in both their voices, the fear that hadn't been satisfied with his rousing, though short, speech. "Yes, that particular demon is rather large. Almost too large to miss, but then again, I've seen you shoot."

"What are you tryin' to say, jackboot?"

There, he'd replaced her fear with a little hurt. Now to inspire her. "I'm just saying, no matter how large it is, I still don't think you could hit it."

"I could too!" she snapped back, striding up to him and standing on tiptoe, an arrow shaft gripped in her hand, the head just inches from his eye. "And a sight more than you could, I bet."

"That's hardly fair," Cullen refused to back down, but he did eye the arrowhead warily. "I'm not an archer, Sera; you'd have an unfair advantage."

"Well, I'm not matching you sword for sword, or, er, thrust for thrust. I don't know how to use a weapon like the one you've got." She didn't quite snicker, but at least she was making an attempt at innuendo. He felt heartened for her sake, but continued to press, seeing as she had returned to eying the demon.

"It seems we're at an impasse, then. What do you think, Dorian?" Cullen turned to him and gave him a meaningful stare.

"What? No, no, no, Commander, I'm with Sera. I couldn't match you thrust for thrust, either, oh, well, you know what I mean." Dorian ducked his head, pretending to be looking at a small skirmish off to the side, praying the heat he felt stealing across his cheeks wasn't showing.

Sera gave a breathy sort of snigger, still encouraging, but Cullen kept his attention on Dorian. "I've seen you fight, Dorian. You're very accurate with that staff of yours. I'm sure you could easily hit that archdemon with your spells far more often than Sera could with her arrows."

"What?" Dorian turned back, blinking at him. He saw Cullen widen his eyes, making a small flicker of movement towards Sera, until Dorian finally turned his head a little further to look at her. She was still toying with an arrow, her eyes refusing to leave the demon flying overhead, her stance shifting from foot to foot. "Oh, right, well," he caught on and started to play along, "I'm a man, you see. And a Tevinter. I've had more formal training than Sera. It wouldn't be a fair match."

"What!" now it was her turn to feel indignant. She finally tore her eyes away from the demon to flash them at the two men. "I don't care how much schoolin' you got. Training don't make you good; good makes you good."

"Succinctly put," Cullen hummed, but Dorian was taking the lead.

"You think you can actually hit that thing? You? With those scrawny little sticks of wood?"

She gave him a tight grin, "I bet I could put innit a sight more arrows than you could, silky under-britches! Or rather, we'll count bolt," she swished her arrow in her fingers, "For bolt," she tapped it against his staff, grinning like a fool. "You in?

He made himself glare a moment longer before he answered, "Loser buys supper at the Herald's Rest, when we get back to Skyhold."

"You're on, Vint! But we're both buyin' the drinks, you know, so we can 'ave twice as much," she cackled, lifting bow and arrow and searching the sky for the demon, but now with an entirely different look in her eyes.

"You know," Dorian leaned in close, his voice so quiet it carried no further than Cullen's ears, "For an elf, she can pack away quite a lot of food. This little bet is going to cost me a fair amount of coin, when I lose."

"So," Cullen breathed back, making sure she couldn't hear, "Don't lose."

"I thought that was the whole point, letting her win the bet so she'd feel better about herself."

"No, the point was to use the betting to distract her from her fear. Besides, she's a woman; she'll know it if you throw the bet."

Dorian hummed, "Yes, quite, good point."

"And if you're that worried about it," he offered, "Dinner's on me."

Dorian beamed at him, "Well, Commander, since you insist…" He twirled his staff in his hands, and almost negligently, without looking, fired off a spell that landed squarely on the archdemon's flank.

Cullen inclined his head and returned his focus—his sole motive—to reaching the central courtyard before the archdemon could hurt Peredura. Less of the Wardens were fighting now, too confused by the sudden appearance of the archdemon and beginning to question and doubt what their leader Clarel had been telling them. Cullen strode through the Wardens, ordering them to stand down and surrender, as Inquisition forces moved in behind him to take possession of the captives.

"Ser!" a soldier raced towards him and saluted, "Message from Blackwall for you, ser."

Cullen hated to stop for anyone or anything, the need to reach Peredura almost overwhelming but, as he had stated earlier, he was a soldier first and foremost, and the military training was too had to ignore. Besides, the soldier had come from the direction of the main courtyard. He nodded, "Go ahead," hoping for once he would hear good news. The hope was in vain.

"Ser, Warden Blackwall said to tell you, the Inquisitor's chasing Erimond and Warden Clarel, up the main tower. But a rift's been opened in the main courtyard, and demons are attacking. He's, Warden Blackwall that is, he's left most of his men to fight the demons, while he takes a small force to catch up with the Inquisitor. He offers the suggestion that you focus on the demons. In the courtyard. Ser."

The recruit stood there, shaking, knowing he had just given his Commander an order, even if it had originally come from someone else. And the darkening expression on Cullen's face confirmed his displeasure. He could hear the leather of the Commander's glove creaking as his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

"Suppose it makes sense," Sera frowned, "Blackwall bein' closer 'n all. We'd never catch up in time. Still, would'a like to 'ave finished that bet, right?" she elbowed Dorian.

He gave a long-suffering sigh, indulging Sera to keep her from fearing, while at the same time hoping Cullen would see the logic in the situation despite his personal feelings. "We could always count the number of smaller demons we kill, if you truly need to have our little competition."

"Ha-ha! Game's a foot, or a hand, whatever you prefer," she shrugged, then shoved against Cullen's shoulder to get him moving. "Come on, lion face, let's get going. The demons aren't gonna kill themselves. But if only they would, right? Right?"

Cullen came out of his dark mood, not entirely, but far enough to see reason. "Right. We'll hold the courtyard, keep the demons from overrunning the fortress we've worked so hard to take ourselves. Sera," he turned to her first, "Take a group of archers up those stairs there; find a way to the rooftops. Surround the courtyard. Fire on anything that isn't worldly."

She snapped a mockery of a salute, which was sincere on her part, and answered, "Arf! Arf! What?" she blinked at Dorian after he started shaking his head, "He's the one what's started it first, barkin' orders at me."

"Just get going, Sera," now it was Cullen's turn to sigh heavily. She laughed, gleefully, even as she turned to race up the indicated stairs. Assured that she was safely out of harm's way, at least as far as the demons would be concerned, he turned to his other side. "Dorian, stay with me. You're one of Peredura's closest friends; she'd never forgive me if I let anything happen to you."

"Same here, Cullen," he countered softly, using his given name and dropping all pretense of formality. Then a thought occurred to him and he had to ask, "You're not worried about Sera then, on those rooftops, with an archdemon flying overhead? Or, knowing how you two feel about each other, did you send her up there on purpose?"

Cullen's lips twitched, not significantly, but it had almost been the beginning of a smile. "I assure you, I also have her safety in mind. I doubt the archdemon will take notice of us, not when it has the Inquisitor to deal with. No, the best place for Sera right now, is where she can fire her arrows and throw out insults from a superior position."

"That is right up her alley, isn't it?" Dorian agreed. "Well, then, let's not forget, right up your alley is going right down the throat into the belly of the beast, isn't it? Shouldn't we get going?" he gestured towards the courtyard.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I was waiting for you, Altus, and your spell."

"Ah, yes, of course," his face contorted slightly in concentration as he used his will to call on the Fade and wrap Cullen, and himself, in a protective magical barrier. "After you, Commander."

The battle in the courtyard was, again, all too familiar, especially as of late, thanks to the countless rifts opening up all over Thedas. The demons seemed to be never-ending, a river of them appearing from the rift, each one they struck down being quickly replaced by another. When the Wardens offered to join them, the ones who had capitulated, Cullen quickly and wisely accepted their assistance. He began to feel hope again, that the tide would turn yet again, that they could persevere and win the battle…

It was Dorian's scream that alerted him, surprisingly enough, rather than the earthshaking rumble of the tower falling apart.

"Buuuuuullllllllll!"

Cullen looked up to where Dorian was staring, and felt his heart cease beating. In an infinitely long moment of torture, he watched as love died, as hope was snuffed out, as courage fell, as even prayer became vain and the Maker proved impotent. Disbelief wrapped protectively around his senses like a numbing salve, but he bitterly shoved it aside and forced himself to look and see and KNOW what was happening! There, high above, there were the tower had just collapsed under the force of the archdemon's dead weight, there were seven bodies—seven people—plummeting to the ground, plummeting to their deaths.

Peredura was in the lead.

She had lost her helmet, her long brown hair whipping behind her like a banner, her arms and legs flailing as if trying to find a grip on something, anything, that would halt her fall. But she was surrounded by nothing but air. All too soon her form grew still, very still, as if accepting her fate, as if surrendering herself to an abrupt and bloody end.

Then it happened. Even from this distance, he could see the flash of green, followed by the odd reverse-thunder of a rift opening. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, the bodies popped into the hole in reality, and did not pop out the other side.

Movement at the corner of his eye reminded him that he was not alone. Cullen's hand flashed out, palm open, to slap against Dorian's chest.

"Get off of me!" the mage slapped back, trying to get past him. "I need to…"

"To what?" Cullen asked, his hand now fisting the front of Dorian's robes. "To race up there? To jump after her? After him?" He moved around until he and the mage stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye. "Maker knows, there's nothing I want more than to follow after her. But it's too late now."

"Don't say that!" he choked, shoving futilely at the Commander's shoulders. "He can't be… they can't be…"

"Dead?" Cullen finished, since he was unable to do so. "No, they're not dead. Didn't you see it? Pere opened a rift, right beneath them. They fell through that, into the Fade, all of them, including Bull."

Dorian knew he was right, but it was hard to accept, hard to believe that the tragedy that had nearly happened, hadn't happened after all. Yet Cullen was in the same boat as he, having just watched someone he deeply cared for almost die a gruesome and harrowing death. He gulped down air, trying to calm himself, feeling like his heart was fit to burst, a moment ago nearly stopping dead, now pounding like a racehorse. His shoving at Cullen's shoulders turned to gripping, to an overwhelming need for assurance. "They… the rift… you saw it?"

"Yes," he didn't loosen his grip, not quite yet, studying Dorian's expression as he continued, "Pere opened it just in time. They're safely in the Fade."

Hysterical laughter bubbled in his chest, but Dorian fought it back. "Safe, did you say, in the Fade?"

Cullen felt his trembling, and his struggle to control it. "She's been inside the Fade before, and she's come out of it, remember? Back at the Conclave. She can do it again, especially with all those she has with her, Hawke, Stroud, Solas, Varric, Cassandra," he softened his voice as he relaxed his hand, "And Bull. What we have to do, is secure this rift here, maintain control over the situation, so that they have something to come back to."

Dorian swallowed, nodded, and let go of his shoulders. "You think they'll come through this rift, back to us?"

"It's what I would do," he shrugged, "I'd find the other end of this rift—provided it's reachable in the Fade—knowing that it opens up into this courtyard, rather than randomly opening up another one of their own to lead them Maker knows where back here in Thedas. And if… when they do come through here, it wouldn't do to have them come back to even more fighting, now, would it?"

Dorian gave a weak smile. "Oh, I don't know; Bull seems to appreciate it when we leave him a little bit of fighting. You know something, you slipped just now." He swung his staff and fired a spell at a demon somewhere off to the side.

"Oh?" Cullen indulged him, just to keep him talking, to keep him—and himself—from worrying. He swung at another demon and wondered where he had dropped his shield, or his helmet for that matter.

"You called her 'Pere.' At least twice. A very intimate term for our mighty Inquisitor. One would say, almost an endearing term."

Cullen blew an exasperated breath out of his nose before firing back, "And you screamed Bull's name."

Dorian chuckled, "I did, didn't I? Very well, we'll share this little secret; we've done it before, after all. But I assure you, Commander, that was the first time I've shouted his name," he fired another bolt of energy, "Though I don't intend for it to be the last."

"I really didn't need to know that," he grunted, picking up a discarded shield and returning his focus to the fight.

He wasn't sure how long it had been, a few hours certainly, but the day wasn't quite over when there was a change in the courtyard. The number of demons was dwindling, the reinforcements slowing to almost nothing. Cullen dared to hope, something he found himself doing more and more often since meeting Peredura, hoping that the battle was nearly over, that this was a sign the others were returning. And at long last his faith was rewarded.

"Varric!" he shouted the moment the dwarf popped through the rift. He was quickly followed by others, Cassandra, Solas, and Bull. At the sight of the big gray qunari, Dorian gave a strangled cry of joy and raced forward.

"What's this?" Bull asked, surprised to see the man rushing towards him, and even more surprised when he was answered with a right hook to his chin, a blow he hadn't anticipated as it came from his blind side.

"THAT'S for jumping off a tower and plummeting to your death!"

Bull blinked the stars from his eyes; he hadn't had his bell rung like that in years, something that made him even more interested in Dorian, if that were possible. "Er, I'm not dead," he very cautiously pointed out, rubbing his jawline—damn, he was gonna get a bruise—and smiled despite the ache.

"I know that, you big lug," Dorian's voice nearly cracked with relief. The next moment, as if suddenly realizing they weren't alone, he cleared his throat and asked, "Oh, um, where are the others? Peredura and that Kirkwall mage and that other…" he wrinkled his nose, "Warden?"

"Huh, I don't know," Bull answered, turning his good eye back towards the rift. "They were right behind us…"

Again Cullen's heart stopped, this time at the ominous undercurrent of Bull's words; and again it started beating when the rift began to shift and crackle. Maker's breath, but this single mission was taking years off his life! He waited, expectant and confident, and watched as both Hawke and Peredura tumbled out of the Fade and back into existence. Hawke, of course, landed with a grace and elegance and style that had always been a part of the bloody git's legendary trademark. Cullen wouldn't have been surprised if he finished with a bow to a round of applause.

Peredura, on the other hand, stumbled and lost her footing and clumsily landed on her hands and knees. Hard. She didn't cry out, however, her face somber, even to the point of becoming expressionless, as if she was trying desperately hard not to show any emotion, for fear that all her emotions would slip out of her control. He knew that look, and immediately knew that something momentous had happened in the Fade, something that shook her to her very core. Her very private, gentle, fragile core.

He ached to go to her, to hold her and tell her everything was alright, to promise to protect her and care for her… But he knew she needed this, needed to find the strength within her self, needed to learn how to stand on her own two feet, as she was standing now. She dusted off her clothing and hands, which brought her attention to her mark. Without turning, without looking around, she simply watched the mark glow as she invoked it, watched the green strands of light twist and slither around her hand. She didn't hear the demons cry out as they died, she didn't see the rift close behind her. But she did know, on some level, that the day was won.

Yet the nightmare was far from over.

* * *

Hours later, well past sunset, Cullen paced through the remnants of Adamant Fortress, searching. Not for his helmet and shield, as he had told the others, but for Peredura. After coming back through the rift, after deciding the fate of the Wardens, after explaining—far too briefly—what had happened in the Fade… as soon as she could manage it, she had slipped away. Cullen alone had noticed it, the moment she left, but he had been far too busy carrying out her orders to break away himself. Oh, he had delegated a fair amount of the work, certainly, but even delegating took time, and explanations, and planning, and coordination…

Now, however, he had made good his own escape, and was stalking the ramparts, one eye out for crumbling stonework, the other eye out for a sign—a glimpse even—of dull brown hair blending into the shadows.

Which was probably why he didn't see Hawke until it was too late.

"Knight-Captain!" the unflappable apostate called out to him, flashing him a charming grin of gleaming white teeth from behind a precisely trimmed beard, a perfect contrast to his exactingly mussed hair. "Excuse me, I mean Knight-Command… er, no, it's just 'Commander' now, isn't it? There's no 'Knight' part, not any longer, not since you've stopped taking lyrium, at least. May I simply call you Cullen, since we're currently not in any sort of military exercise? Less cumbersome, and all that." He didn't seem to mind the fact that Cullen didn't break his stride, falling into step at his shoulder.

"Hawke," he acknowledged, wondering what the former Viscount and Champion of Kirkwall would want with him. "I'm sure, like Varric, you'll call me whatever you damn well please."

Hawke gave a warm chuckle at that, unperturbed by his abrasiveness. "Too true, Cullen; you know me too well. Walk with me for a bit, would you?" he gestured the way Cullen had been going.

"Again, am I going to have a say in the matter?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

Hawke's easy laugh was wasted. "Well, I see you haven't changed much, just as surly as ever. And the way you handled the Wardens back there, it was good to see you haven't lost that sense of duty and fairness you were renowned for back in Kirkwall."

Cullen wasn't sure he wasn't being made fun of. "Is there a point to this?" he groused, his focus more on the shadows, both the ones on the ramparts, and below in the courtyards and walkways of the fortress. Peredura was too good at hiding, and blending in, when she was of a mind not to be found.

"Just making conversation," Hawke didn't seem to take offense at the lack of attention he was receiving, but he did skip around to block Cullen's progress, a hand on the former templar's arm. "Please, Cullen, talk with me for a moment. It is such a beautiful night." He gestured off to the side, towards a part of the bulwark that was overlooking a wide staircase leading into a courtyard with a well.

Cullen sighed, thinking he might know where this was headed; Hawke's reputation was not as discreet as he liked to think—not after what had happened with Anders. "I'm not interested in you, Hawke, if that's what you're implying…"

The laughter that broke over his words sounded only a little bit forced, a little bit pained, a little bit forlorn; all these emotions echoed in Hawke's golden eyes. "Sorry, Commander, if I gave you the wrong impression. I know you're not my type. Besides, you're already spoken for, if I'm not mistaken."

"Wha… no, I… who… where did you hear… why would you think… I've no idea what you're talking about…" he sputtered in a rather unconvincing manner.

Hawke decided to let him off the hook, for the moment. "As I said," he gestured to the low wall again, "Talk with me for a while? That's all I ask, just for a little bit of time."

He didn't want to, but he did know Hawke—not all that well, but well enough at least to know that the man wouldn't intentionally waste his time. "Alright," he sighed, giving in, and striding forwards to stand at attention and stare blankly out over the wall.

Hawke didn't try to laugh again, thinking he had probably lightened the situation all he could without breaking the man. He moved to Cullen's shoulder, standing close without crowding him, and commented, "It's been quite a day, hasn't it? And only one day, I know, but it seems like ages since I last stood here on these ramparts. Actually," he glanced around them, shifted a foot to the right, and continued, "Come to think of it, it was more over here. And I was facing this way, when I killed a demon, right on the very spot where you're standing."

Cullen had watched him move, and dropped his gaze with his pointing finger to see the pile of dissolved demon beneath the heel of his boot. He lifted his foot, made a bit of disgusting noise over the mess, and began to scrape the boot against a bit of debris. "That must have been fairly close."

"It was," he agreed, "A last-second, him-or-me, barely-had-time-to-swing-my-staff fight. And hardly any time to relish my quick brush with death before the next attack. Ah, but now look at it." He returned to the ramparts, bracing his hands and overlooking the small courtyard. He turned his face just so an errant breeze could tussle at his black locks, messing them further. "Look around us. Such a pleasant evening. Quiet. At peace. A dramatic change from earlier, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," he allowed, "Especially after what you must have been through, in the Fade."

A slight grimace cracked his features, before he could hide it. "That's what I've always admired about you, Knight… erm, Cullen, you never mince words. Straight and to the point. But I'm thankful; I do want to speak with you about what happened in the Fade. I just couldn't seem to find a way to bring it up."

"It's brought up now," Cullen turned his full attention towards him at long last, "So speak. What happened in there? Peredura didn't say much about it in her speech…"

"Peredura," Hawke repeated, a slightly teasing tone to his voice, a damnable eyebrow raised questioningly, "Not 'her Worship' or 'Inquisitor,' but Peredura. Interesting slip of the tongue there."

Cullen fixed him with his best glare, but he only waved it off.

"Relax, Cullen, I'm the last man alive who would judge someone else concerning their choice of lovers." Hawke's jovial mask finally fully slipped away, for more than one reason, as he continued, "And, no, she wouldn't have told everyone what happened to her—to us. It's bad enough we all had to share in it with her."

"Share what?" he pressed, decidedly ignoring the enigmatic jibe about lovers, but Hawke didn't answer. Instead he shook his head and pointed off to their side.

Cullen turned his head to follow the gesture. There in the courtyard below, just coming into view, was Peredura. She stepped out of the shadows of an archway and seemed to be unaware of him, of either of them. She was walking slowly, meandering through the rubble, with her arms wrapped around herself and her posture slouched. She paused beside a broken chest, the toe of her boot absently pushing around bits of debris and broken shards of glass, and never once looked up. Something must have caught her eye, however, because in the next moment, she gave a small cry of triumph and made for the well. There she dropped to her knees, digging through the debris until she brought out Cullen's helmet. She held it to her bosom, her fingers stroking the cold metal cheek guards as if she were stroking real flesh and blood.

"Tell her. She needs to hear it, from you. Tell her now, tonight, before it's too late."

Cullen started at these words, ripping his eyes away from her to stare at Hawke. "What…?" but he was already speaking to the man's back, as Hawke made for the stairs. He hastened after him, partly to catch him and ask him what he meant, partly to stop him before he drew the attention of Peredura. But it was already too late.

"Inquisitor," the mage called out, only a little louder than necessary, but he wanted to make sure she didn't have an opportunity to pretend she didn't notice them and slip away before they could reach her. She gave a guilty start and spun, coming to her feet, one hand holding the helmet while the other flew to a knife at her waist, all in one fluid motion. He coughed, descending the last few steps into the courtyard, and said in a softer voice, "Excuse me, Madam Inquisitor, I had no intention of startling you."

You had every intention of startling her, Cullen thought to himself, still following behind Hawke. He was no longer trying to stop him, but was now committed as Peredura noticed them both. He briefly locked gazes with her, becoming captivated by her wide, doe-like eyes. Her cheeks blossomed into a rose red, muted by the moonlight, and she sputtered, "I, er, no, I wasn't… I mean, um, good evening, Hawke." She glanced again over Hawke's shoulder, her voice catching and growing breathy as she finished, "Cullen."

Hawke graciously ignored the all but palatable emotional tension in the air. "The Knight-, erm, that is, Cullen and I were just out for a bit of a stroll, taking the chance to catch up. You do know, he and I knew each other in Kirkwall."

Peredura blinked, tearing her gaze from Cullen's face, and tried to keep up with the conversation. "Oh, um, yes, Varric's told me stories about Kirkwall. But the stories he tells are so fantastic and imaginative, sometimes it's hard to remember that the characters in some of his stories are real people. Like Cullen. And you, of course," she added almost as an afterthought. She shifted her feet, fumbling with the helmet, and kept glancing off to the side as if looking for someone to rescue her, or someplace she could run to hide.

"Yes, I remember one tall tale in particular Varric liked to tell about me, something to do with fighting a dragon wearing nothing but my knickers."

Peredura's giggle was spontaneous, though quickly choked off, as her nervousness fell before the brunt of Hawke's easy charm. Her cheeks still red, her hands still fidgeting, she nevertheless managed to tease back, "Actually, I was thinking of the one where the dragon bit you in the arse…"

"Yes, well, quite," he coughed this time, quickly cutting her off. He rubbed at the break in his nose and finished in a rush, "Perhaps some of his stories may have a kernel or two of truth to them." He saw her trying to hide her giggle behind her hand, and felt a little better knowing his embarrassment wasn't in vain—a very little bit better. "Speaking of stories, did Varric ever tell you the one of what happened in Kirkwall? When the circle fell?"

Now it was Cullen's turn to feel uneasily, glancing to the side and pressing his hand against his thigh, willing it to stop shaking. Maker's breath! He did not wish to relive that day, not after having had a day like today. But he was trapped, unable to slip away, a captive eavesdropper on their conversation.

"He, ah, may have told it to me once. But it's such a dark story, and he knows I prefer the ones with humor in them."

"Don't we all," Hawke agreed with her, growing unusually sober. He walked over to the well and leaned against it, a well-practiced stance, one that showed off the musculature of his arms and the length of his legs. "But it's the dark and serious stories that are the most important, that remain with us, that we can learn from, like the one from today.

"Do you know," he continued, not allowing her to interject, not that she knew what she was going to say, only that she knew she didn't want to talk about today. It seemed, however, that Hawke had something else in mind, as he continued to commandeer the conversation. "Do you know, the man who blew up the Chantry that day, the man who started the whole mage rebellion, do you know who he was?"

"An apostate," she answered, sounding like a student answering her teacher in the classroom, "A runaway mage. No one knows his real name, he was simply known as Anders. He was also a former Grey Warden, and became possessed by a spirit, a demon, and it drove him insane." Her words stopped, silenced by the stricken look on his face.

"I suppose… that's as accurate description as any. He was all that, yes," he sighed, offering his profile to her as he stared off into space and added, "But there was so much more to him. He was also my lover. My love. The only man—the only person—I ever loved more than myself."

Cullen of course knew this, but Peredura hadn't, not if the expression of shock and pain and horror on her face was anything to go by. He supposed that would be one part of the story Varric might leave out, showing an unusual modicum of good taste on the dwarf's part. And possibly because, at the time Varric told her the tale, he like everyone else thought of Peredura as an innocent human girl and too young for such concepts. Yet she had been, as she was now, mature enough to understand exactly what Hawke was telling her. The Champion didn't give her time to consider all the implications, however, clearing the lump out of his throat so he could speak again.

"Nearly half of Kirkwall was destroyed that day. Scores of people killed, hundreds more wounded. People I knew, people I cared about, people I… well, let's just say, no one was left untouched by that event. I, especially, lost the trust and respect of more than one close friend, thanks to my association with Anders. Even after I… Well, at least Anders is at peace, now."

Peredura stared, unable to speak, as a tear fell from the corner of Hawke's eye to disappear into his bearded cheek. She knew what Anders' fate had been, and whose hand had delivered the deathblow; Varric hadn't glossed over that part of the story.

"I worked hard, Peredura, I worked so very hard, to right the wrongs Anders had done. I tried to broker peace between the mages and the templars, but the mages would not listen. So I turned on them, on my own kind if you will, to assist the templars in restoring order. And after the rebellion was over and Meredith had been dealt with, I continued to try to fix the damage that had been done, as Viscount of Kirkwall. I even left for their sakes, did you know that? I left Kirkwall, rather than risk the Divine ordering an Exalted March against the city, just to capture me. I sacrificed everything! But I never made things right again."

"It wasn't your fault," she stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. "No one blames you. It was all Anders. He acted out of…"

"Anders and I were lovers," he countered, "No one else was as close to him as I, no one else could have seen the signs as I could have—as I should have. Insane or sober, I should have noticed something was wrong with him. And perhaps," his brows curved as he shrugged, "Perhaps I did see something, but chose to ignore it. Do you understand? Do you see the guilt I feel?"

"I…" she stopped as quickly as she started, biting her lip to keep from answering.

Hawke patted her hand, still on his arm, and offered a small smile. "No one blames me, that's what you said. But that's not quite true, because you see, I do. I blame myself. For something I had no control over." He tilted his head, peeking beneath her overgrown bangs to catch her eye, "Sound familiar?"

She didn't answer, but neither did she deny it.

"I'll be leaving for Weisshaupt first thing in the morning," he announced, "But I wanted a chance to see you before I go, to tell you… well, to help you understand something." He pushed away from the well, cupping her face in his hands, gently forcing her to look at him, "The guilt we carry with us, justly or unjustly, is of our own sentencing."

Hawke held her for a moment, staring into her eyes, making sure she didn't dismiss his words outright. When he deemed it appropriate, he nodded and let go of her cheeks. "As I said," he stepped back, retreating from her personal space, taking a moment to dust off his backside, "I must leave at first light," he adjusted his mace-like staff, shrugging to see it was still securely strapped to his back. "And I'd like a chance to see Varric before I do, so if you'll excuse me, Inquisitor, I'll take my leave of you now. Good night. And… good fortune."

She didn't answer other than to incline her head, absently dismissing him outwardly, while she focused on his advice inwardly.

Hawke didn't take offense over her preoccupation, but turned to leave without another word. As he passed by Cullen, however, he paused and gave him a meaningful look while mouthing the words, "Tell her," before disappearing into the shadows of the night.

Tell her, Cullen repeated silently inside his own head. Tell her what? What was this mysterious message he was supposed to have? What was so important? What was it she needed to hear so desperately? It seemed Hawke had been the one doing all the talking, and saying the right words, if the deep and thoughtful look on Peredura's face was anything to go by. So then, what was it that he could offer, that he could add, that he could say that was so necessary that it must be said tonight…

"I, um, I found this, your helmet," she offered up the armor without lifting her eyes further than his belt buckle. "When we came back from…" she gave her lower lip a quick little nip, managing to draw a drop of blood, "I mean, I saw, when we got back, that you didn't have your helmet on. And I remembered you were wearing it before we split up. So I've been walking around, backtracking your steps, trying to, ah, see if I could find it…" her voice dribbled off into the shadows.

Cullen absently took it, "Thank you," his mind still focused on what it was he was supposed to tell her. Surely everything essential had been told already, Blackwall taking Erimond into custody, the Wardens' surrender, and she finished the demons and the rift… As if sensing the silence was going on for to long, he blurted, "I also lost my shield."

"Oh? In this area, too? I'll help you look for it." Her words were eager, his suggestion seized upon like a wolf after the throat of a rabbit. Immediately she started rooting around in the rubble, overturning chunks of building, delving through remains of demons, her entire focus on finding his shield.

Well, he thought to himself, that was… erm… something… at least. She certainly sounded like she was thankful he had brought up his shield. But it was hardly important, hardly something she needed to hear now, tonight, before it was too late. What was it, he racked his brain, trying to remember what he and Hawke had been talking about, when the notorious apostate made his remark. Something about Anders? Or the Fade? It was probably some small thing, some small comment that slipped past unnoticed…

"Here it is!" she exclaimed, triumphant, her face lighting up with her success. Cullen pulled out of his musings to see her straighten up, his shield in her hands, a bit tarnished but other than that it was whole. Yet for once in his life he ignored his equipment, in favor of taking in the vision before him. Peredura's face was bright, her smile genuine, living in the moment of her discovery, of her success, of her little gesture.

And he responded. He responded as only a man could respond, his blood rushing through his veins with a purpose of its own, filling him and preparing him for… His breath, too, quickened, keeping pace with his heart, flushing his blood with oxygen, infusing his body with energy, with… desire…

Oh, Maker, could this actually be happening? To him? To them? Yes, he had come to terms with the fact that he had feelings towards her, and he had noticed before that being near her could arouse his long-dead libido. But this feeling tonight was more intense, more personal, like an ethereal fist was squeezing his heart with breathless intensity.

Something must have shown on his face. Before he could fully define what he was experiencing, before he could find the words to express it, he watched the expression on her face change as she caught his eye and then turned away. And he didn't want her to go.

"Pere…"

"Cullen…"

They spoke at the same time, and stopped at the same time, the heat stealing across their cheeks at the same time. He wanted to laugh, not because it was humorous, but because he felt so awkward just then, so uncomfortable, so lost. But, apparently, so did she. Finding an odd sort of comfort in their shared, um, uncomfortableness, he was the first to find his voice, "What is it?"

She gave her head a quick shake, "You were going to say something?"

"No, it's your turn to go first," he spoke gently, coming up to her side, and taking his shield from her lingering grip. Besides, he still needed to figure out what it was Hawke wanted him to tell her. "Go ahead."

Her fingers, empty of anything to hold, began picking and worrying at her lip, as if her teeth hadn't done enough damage. He moved to set his shield and helmet down, intending to free his hands so he could stop the destruction, but she was turning away from him.

"I know…" she breathed, letting go of her lip to hug herself again, "I know what you're going to say, Cullen." The words were pained, stressed, almost torn from her chest.

"You…" he swallowed, wondering how she had figured it out while he was still clueless, "You do?"

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "I do. But I… I don't feel it…"

"You… don't?" that fist was back, squeezing his chest tighter than ever. Feel, he repeated silently in his head, feel what? What should she be feeling, that he would be telling her to feel…

"No, I… I don't… I can't… not right now, anyway." She took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving with the effort, and lifted her chin just far enough for the curtain of bangs to fall away from one eye, one eye that stared at him with watery intensity. "You don't know, Cullen, you weren't there. You didn't see… didn't remember… like the others did…"

He was still lost, adrift, tossed about by another mammoth wave on an ocean of confusion. "Ah," he stepped forward, his hand reaching out to her, wondering what in the Fade she was talking about.

"I… I remembered, Cullen," the words were coming faster now, tumbling from her lips like heavy rain, "What happened at the Conclave. The explosion. The blood ritual. What Vivianus was doing there—what WE were doing there. The nightmare demon had taken those memories from me, before I escaped the Fade that first time. But this time, the demon gave those memories back to me. Only everyone else there, Hawke, Stroud, Varric, Solas, The Iron Bull, Cassandra," the last name she spoke so softly, Cullen had to read her lips more than hear it, "They all saw those memories, too. My memories. They saw me, cutting myself, bleeding for Vivianus, helping him lead the Grey Wardens in the blood ritual, binding the Divine, holding her tight while Corypheus worked his spell. They saw it all, through my eyes, through my thoughts. And I… I'm so ashamed!" She sobbed so suddenly, spittle fell from her lips, her hands covering her mouth to hide her embarrassment.

"I'm so ashamed. I know now, why Corypheus laughed when he learned I was the Herald of Andraste. I know why Erimond laughed, too, when he first saw me. Because they recognized me. Because they could remember what I could not.

"That I didn't care," she swept on, her hand falling away, the fingers halfway between a fist and a grasp, trying to touch the intangible. "I didn't care what what was happening at the Conclave. I was shaking, hurting, weak from the blood loss… Vivianus had given me a healing potion, but that's all the time he could spare for me. His focus was on helping Corypheus, so much so that he had forgotten to give me my opeigh. And I needed it. I NEEDED the opeigh. I didn't care about the old lady. I didn't care what they were doing to her or why. I only cared about my fix. I tried to get Vivianus' attention. I even tried to reach into his robes and find the vial for myself. And that's when he struck me. Backhanded. Hard enough to cut my lip. To cause enough of a distraction that the magic restraining the Divine slipped, just for a moment, and she was able to knock the orb from Corypheus' hand.

"But I didn't even try to help her. I saw that orb, rolling towards me, and I knew I had to catch it. I was kneeling there, holding my face," her right hand reached up, mimicking the memory, cupping the side of her jaw, "And I watched that orb come closer. I knew that orb was important, and I thought—my only thought—was to grab it and give it to Vivianus and, maybe, somehow, he'd give me the opeigh in exchange. Or maybe I'd hold on to the orb until he handed over the vial, I don't know, I wasn't thinking clearly, I needed opeigh, and I reached out and…" her other hand stretched out in front of her, shaking so hard even her arm trembled.

The anchor on her hand glowed for a moment, as if it too was reliving that memory. The color, the light, or perhaps she somehow could feel the mark whenever it acted up, but something snapped her out of her newly-rediscovered memory. Her eyes focused on the sight, then her expression changed back to the one from before, the self-loathing and misery and horror. Her hands fell to her sides, her shoulders slumped, and her face fell.

"That's what the nightmare demon did to me, in the Fade, hurting me far more than any sword or arrow or spell. It gave back my memories—to all of us. They ALL know what I was, what I did, what I thought and felt and… And Cassandra… when she saw the Divine… when she saw what I did… or didn't do…" she bit her lip again, behind her hands, as if to physically keep the words inside, along with the painful truth, the disgust, and the remorse. Then she hiccoughed, let go of her lip, and dropped her hands. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and continued.

"So, you see, I do know what you're going to say. You're going to say, that was the old Peredura. I'm no longer that girl. That slave. I've grown and matured. Now I inspire people. Now I lead them. Now I stand against Corypheus. And I know," she finally looked back at him, "I know I'm different. But it's too new. It's too fresh, this old memory, it's too fresh in my thoughts. It feels like it just happened hours ago; I can't reconcile it back into my past. I need," a tear slipped from her lashes, in a slow free fall down her cheek, to dangle from her jawline, "I need some time, a little space, away from the Inquisition. Away from everyone who was there with me. Just away. I… I need to be by myself. To put my thoughts—my memories—back in order. Then, maybe, I won't feel so guilty.

"So I'm going with Scout Harding," she finished, "To the Hidden Wastes. I've already made arrangements with her. We'll leave at sunrise. Tomorrow. I… I need this, Cullen, please, try to understand. I know I'm no longer Peredura the slave, but I don't feel it, not after what just happened in the Fade, not quite yet. I just need some time. Please. Say you understand. Say this is a good idea, for me to go. Please?"

How could he say no? After all that had happened today, after all she had just confessed… "You know Cassandra doesn't blame you for what happened to the Divine."

Peredura's face looked down and away, her eyes squeezed shut tight, her lips pulled back in a painful grimace of frustration, her fists clenched so tight she might be drawing more blood.

"That being said, I understand. I do," he lied. It was quite clear to him, that everything she had done back then, was far removed from today; he didn't understand why she had to keep muddling things together. "Take however long you need. I'll handle everything else, the prisoners, the conscripts, the wounded, the equipment. I'll get everyone safely back to Skyhold. And," he put his hands on her shoulders, wanting to hold her, not trusting that she would allow it, but unable to continue standing there and not touch her, "I'll meet you there, when you're ready to come home."

"Home," her lips mouthed, barely a breath passing between them. She swayed a moment, he felt her rock in his hands; then she was leaning forwards, leaning into his embrace, burying her face in the fur of his mantle, digging her fingers into the thick fabric hanging down his back. "Oh, Cullen," she moaned.

He stroked her back, completely forgetting the mysterious message he was supposed to be telling her, and soothed her. "It'll be alright, Pere," he stood, as solid and strong as a mountain, and held her while she wept, at least for as long as he could. He knew he'd have to let her go eventually, but for this moment, while they were standing face-to-face, he would keep her safe. "Just give it some time. Everything will be alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry, my dears, for this being so long, but there was so much I wanted to put into this chapter. Hope you don't mind the length *giggle-snort*


	25. It's Always Darkest Before…

_"Tell her now, tonight, before it's too late…"_

Those were Hawke's words.

Cullen paced across the battlements at Skyhold, brooding over those mysterious last words. Tell her what, exactly, he silently questioned for the hundredth time. Of course Hawke wasn't there to answer him; he'd been gone for a couple of weeks now. But those enigmatic words of his remained.

_"…tell her…"_

Cullen stopped pacing to brace, his gloved hands gripping the stonework while he leaned out over the lower crenel between two higher merlons. He was right above the front entrance to Skyhold, staring down the length of the bridge into the valley below where the main Inquisition forces were camped. It was an inspiring sight, how the army seemed to grow daily. Yet the view was lost on him, his focus mainly inward. On Hawke's warning. And on Peredura.

THAT part of the message he had been able to figure out; the only 'her' who would be relevant was, of course, the Inquisitor. But the 'what' still eluded him. And why would there be a deadline. Not to mention, he'd passed that deadline nearly two weeks ago back at Adamant Fortress right before he left for Skyhold and she left for the Hissing Wastes, so this was probably all a moot point.

Yet the words kept haunting him, almost as much as the woman.

Cullen closed his eyes, allowing his discipline to slip as he allowed the wind to ruffle his hair, and turned his thoughts—yet again—to Peredura. She'd been such a young and innocent girl when he'd first met her; he'd truly had no idea that day he'd saved her from being crushed by supply crates, that she was the Herald, she was so shy and unassuming and inexperienced. Yet she'd grown, learning new skills and discovering talents she never knew she had, finding out she had the strength within her to endure hardship, to be able to inspire others, and to become a leader and eventually Inquisitor.

And that was another matter that troubled him. She was the Inquisitor. He was the Commander of her forces. They shouldn't be fraternizing, not that they were fraternizing, well, they were… but not in that sense of the word.

Yet he… Oh, Blessed Andraste… He wanted to. Slipping away to steal a kiss, or 'accidentally' brushing up against her, or making some little comment that would sound innocent to others… even that private waltz they'd shared at the Winter Palace: all of it was very well and good and fun.

But he wanted more. He shouldn't, he damn well knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted… Pere.

How could he? How could he have her? With the Inquisition to look after and Corypheus to destroy, not to mention Tevinter blood mages roaming around doing Maker knows what, and red templars running amok causing fear and chaos, and demons spilling from rifts and… The list went on and on and on, leaving no time for each other, even if they both wanted to.

And that was another pickle for him to contemplate. Pere gave no sign, as far as he could tell, that she wanted more out of their relationship. Oh, she went to him when she needed comfort, and she sought out his advice, and she shared her thoughts and concerns with him, and more than a few of her secrets. And she would smile when she saw him, and touch his arm with empathy whenever he seemed to be having a minor relapse of his withdrawal, and on occasion he'd catch her watching him with a strange look in her eyes… But she never SAID anything.

Wait a moment, his brow furrowed, hadn't he just been thinking about the necessity of saying something to…

"Commander Cullen, Ser!"

"What!" he barked, opening his eyes and turning his head to look over his shoulder at the rude soldier who had just interrupted his thoughts. Whatever epiphany he'd been on the verge of discovering, had just flown away, far out of his grasp. And venting his spleen on the hapless woman seemed a fair recompense for her crime.

Of course, he barked a lot, ever since he'd taken himself off of lyrium, so the men and women under him were used to it. She snapped to attention, refusing to feel flustered or abashed for her actions, and delivered her message. "Spymaster Leliana has been receiving reports all morning, on the Inquisitor, Ser. She has requested your presence in the War Room. At once, Ser!"

Reports from Pere. His first impulse was to race off to the War Room, just to hear how she was doing, find out if she was enjoying herself, how much she had learned about scouting from Harding, what the Hissing Wastes were like… But of course that would be out of character for him; before he'd never hare off at the drop of a hat simply because Pere had sent a letter or two. Or more—in thinking back, he had noticed what seemed like a flock of ravens flying in overhead all morning. But no, he was the Commander; he had to act the part. So he would acknowledge the message, dismiss the soldier, and take his own bloody time getting to the War Room.

"Very well," he nodded, and began waiting expectantly. The woman snapped off another salute and spun smartly on her heel to continue on to her next task. Cullen made himself stand there, counting to ten, before he gave one last glance out over the battlements. Another raven was winging its way towards the rookery at the top of the library tower. He took a deep breath, wondering what had happened that caused so many ravens to be sent, and who Pere had gotten to write all these letters for her. Only then did he turn and make his way, at a very dignified and measure pace, towards the main Keep.

He was the last to arrive, and was a bit surprised to see who all had been gathered. Usually only he, Josephine, Leliana, and Pere discussed matters in the War Room. But today Cassandra had been invited, as well as Varric and Solas. It reminded Cullen of the early days of the Inquisition, when they were using the back room in the Chapel down in Haven, and Pere would be standing off to the side trying to blend in with the wooden walls. He almost turned now to see if she was standing there, hiding like she used to, but the sober expression on Leliana's face made him pause.

"Commander, good. Now that we're all here, we can begin. I've been receiving reports from the Hissing Wastes over the past several hours. They are a bit jumbled as some of the ravens have flown faster than others, but I think enough of the reports have come, that I can start to tell you."

"Tell us what?" Cassandra beat Cullen to the question, but his mouth remained opened as he glanced back from Cassandra to Leliana.

When she paused, he felt as if a fist of steel had wrapped around his heart.

"We all know the Inquisitor went there after Adamant," Varric prompted. "Harding was going to scout the Hissing Wastes, and Peredura went with to learn how to scout. I take it, they scouted themselves into some trouble."

"Our little Peredura does have a penchant for finding trouble," Solas hummed in agreement.

"Will you two be quiet and let her tell us?" Cassandra ground out between her teeth.

Cullen still hadn't dared to speak; he barely dared to breathe. Though his left hand rested loose and limber across the pommel of his sword, his right hand tightened into a fist, the leather creaking, the stitching nearly popping, as Leliana began her tale.

"There are still some parts missing, but my scouts have orders to bring any and all reports from Harding straight here, so hopefully those holes will get filled in as we go. This is what I know so far.

"The Inquisitor was out scouting with Harding and another scout, Bostwick, when they came across two Tevinter Magisters, camped approximately fifteen miles northwest of the Inquisition base camp. The Magisters had with them a cage full of slaves, and they were using those slaves to perform some sort of blood magic ritual."

"We all know how Peredura would react to that," Varric interrupted. "I take it, she decided the three of them could handle two mages?"

"That was her intention," Leliana agreed. "With the element of surprise on their side and outnumbering the mages three to two, she felt it was an acceptable risk, that they could kill the mages and free the slaves. Harding agreed with her, and so they attacked. And they may have succeeded, if they themselves hadn't been surprised by a Tevinter patrol just returning from their own scouting mission…" 

* * *

 

Peredura fired an arrow, kneeling down next to Harding, who was propped up against the roots of an ancient and long-dead tree. "How bad?" she asked, notching another arrow, trying to keep the Tevinter soldiers from flanking them.

"Just a scratch," Harding gasped, pressing her hand into the wound on her thigh.

"Bull shit," Peredura didn't even glance over at her. Things had gone badly, very very badly, and they would only get worse. And it was all her fault. If they had only stayed to their mission of scouting and returned to base camp with the location of the mages. The Iron Bull and the others would be arriving in a day or so, and together they could have come back here and easily destroyed these bastards. But how many of those slaves would have died in the time being? So instead, Peredura had allowed herself to narrow her focus, block out any other sights or signs which in hindsight she could now clearly see, and selfishly tried to kill the Venatori mages herself. That both Harding and Bostwick agreed with her course of action did not matter—she was the Inquisitor; she should have kept her head and considered every possibility, and not allow herself to become lost in vengeance.

"Inquisitor," Harding grabbed her ankle with her other hand, "Peredura, we all thought it was the right thing to do."

Her eyes dropped down to where they were touching, an eery feeling filling her from within, as if somehow Harding had read her mind. She brushed it aside and focused on the matter at hand. "Perhaps, but it was still foolish—of me—to allow us to try it." Peredura finally did look over at her, saw the paleness to her face, the sweat staining her hair, the labor of every breath, and knew what she had to do. "Get back to base camp, as quick as you can, and bring back help." She leaned back and took aim.

"What?"

"Keep your voice down," Peredura fired her second to last arrow. "They don't see you. With a little luck, they'll continue to overlook you."

"No…"

"Bostwick is already dead," Peredura ducked as a bolt of magic flew wildly over their heads. "And they know someone's here by this tree, so they might believe there were only the two of us out here, Bostwick and I, scouting, and not look for any more soldiers. Stay hidden in these roots while I draw them off. Once you're clear, make your way back to base camp and return with more men. I'll keep them occupied for as long as I can."

"No, Inquisitor, you go, I'm injured, you'll make it there and back faster than I…"

"They've already seen me," she repeated, firing off her last arrow, "I won't be able to slip away."

"There are blood mages here. You don't know what they'll do to you."

Yes, I do, she thought to herself, far more than you could ever imagine. But instead of revealing her secret, she continued to reason with the dwarf, "It's dusk, shadows are forming, that'll help you remain undiscovered. I'll lead them on a chase off to the north, that should keep them from looking in your direction, too."

"Inquisitor…"

"Oh, that reminds me," Peredura looked down at her chest, ripping of the badge that marked her as Inquisitor, "Here, take this, keep it safe for me. We wouldn't want them to discover who I am, just in case they do capture me."

"I… I can't…"

"You must," Peredura hissed, pressing the insignia into Harding's hand, "That's an order, soldier. Understood?"

Harding swallowed, tears filling her eyes, but she managed to choke out, "Yes, Ser!"

Peredura gave her a brave little smile and a nod of encouragement. "Remember, wait until I've drawn them off before you start. Good fortune, Harding."

"Good fortune, Inquisitor," Harding whispered in answer, shifting backwards into the roots.

Peredura didn't waste any more time. She bounced up to her feet, craning her neck to get a clear look at who was coming towards them, and to give them a clear look at her. Then she crouched down, narrowly missed being hit by a better aimed bolt of magic, and raced off towards a rock outcropping.

She knew her chances were slim to nothing, but she had to try, she had to do what she could to improve Harding's chances… and perhaps, on some deep and tormented level, she felt if she was captured, that whatever happened would be just and fair and in payment for any past mistakes. She reached the outcropping and ducked behind it, gasping for breath so loudly she almost missed hearing the arrows striking the rocks around her. But she did hear the noise, and it gave her an idea. Being an archer herself, she knew it would only take a second or two to have another arrow ready after firing the first. If she could get them to fire again, she could use that preciously short time to peek around and make sure no one was searching for Harding. She dropped her bow and took off her helmet, waving it around just far enough to get noticed.

There was another volley of arrows, as predicated. She was moving almost before they finished landing, stretching her neck out to see the scene around her. Only one soldier was near the tree where Harding was hiding, but he wasn't looking at the tree, fitting another arrow to his bow and aiming at Peredura. There were others, nine in all, spreading out to surround the pile of rocks where she was hiding. She ducked back down and stuffed her helmet back on, giving herself until the count of five to catch her breath. It appeared Harding would be able to get away after all. Now all Peredura had to do was buy some time.

Time. Right. As in, time to start running again. There was a cliff face not too far away, perhaps another mile or so, that would provide plenty of cover and give her ample opportunities to allow the Tevinters to catch glimpses of her. She only needed to keep them interested and following her and not doubling back to stumble across Harding by accident. The cliff was too far away for her to reach in one sprint, but then again, she didn't want to reach it too quickly. She looked over her shoulder, as if she could see through the rocks to where the Tevinters were trying to outflank her. Then she jumped forward, sprinting for a small patch of scrub brush nearby, her arms pumping with her legs as if they could claw through the air and pull her along faster.

An arrow smacked against the armor covering her back, striking at an angle and bouncing harmlessly away. She didn't allow herself the time to react to her near miss, diving for the short bushes and rolling along the ground until she was crouching. After a gulp of air, she pushed herself to her feet and raced off in a slightly different direction, though still somewhat north and away from Harding. And again she dove for cover as a bolt of magic flew a little too close, exploding the sand into dust to her left. Mindlessly she settled into a rhythm: gulp a lungful of air, sprint, dive for cover, gulp a lungful of air, sprint, dive for cover, gulp, sprint…

Another arrow, this one tugging on her leggings. Again she didn't let herself dwell on how close it had come to penetrating her skin, seeing her goal before her, an ancient tree uprooted from the ground, it's massive root system exposed, plenty of cover, just a few more strides…

Something solid hit her shoulder, something she never saw coming. It knocked her off her feet, sending her twirling in mid air, a look of shock on her face as her downfall came into view—a red templar. Then the vision of corruption was swept from her sight as she finished her spin, falling to the ground and landing hard, face down in the gritty sand.

There was the solid thud of a heavy body hitting the ground next to her, and a hand as cold as the rocks around them gripped the back of her neck, nearly snapping it. She didn't dare move, allowing only a small cry for the pain and surprise, and waited for her fate.

"What have you caught, my pet?" a man's voice cooed. "Easy, boy, don't kill it. Let us have a look, first."

"It's the other Inquisition scout," another male stated, "Look at his armor. Lightweight. Flexible. And the empty quiver. This is the one that was firing at us earlier, alright."

"Turn it over," the first one said, "I think we'll discover something interesting about this one."

"Oh?" the second man hummed.

Peredura felt the pressure on her neck let up, but she had no time to enjoy the reprieve. The corrupted templar seemed to be fully enthralled to the mages, as it flipped her over so they could get a good look at her. First she feared they might have somehow discovered a clue or two to her identity, allowing them to realized they held the Inquisitor herself as their captive. But their reaction was far more blasé than anything she could have expected.

"A woman!" the second mage announced. Then he looked at the first mage, the first man who had spoken, and the lust was obvious on his voice. "Nice…"

Peredura wanted to gag, but the templar's hand on her chest kept her from convulsing.

"Well, well, well, what shall we do with you?" the first mage hummed. He looked around at the others, four archers and two swordsmen, and all males— the red templar didn't count. "Any suggestions?"

"We can't allow her to return to their camp and report what she's seen. We don't even know what she's seen," one of the swordsmen answered.

"Good point. First, we should find out what she knows. Then we'll kill her."

"I have an idea," one of the archers piped up, "Let's torture her."

"What does it matter what I know," Peredura spat at them, "If you're going to kill me anyway? I'll never have the chance to report on anything."

"Ah, but where's the sport?" the first mage answered. "Where's the entertainment? Besides, it'll be a good opportunity for my apprentice here to practice his skills."

Peredura laughed, putting as much bravado as she could scrounge into her voice. "He does look a bit… inexperienced."

"Why you… bitch!"

"Easy, my friend, easy," the first mage held his apprentice in check with a hand to his chest. "She's only trying to rile you up, in an attempt to make herself feel superior to you, to all of us. It was a nice thought, but pointless. You will be raped, my dear girl," he leaned over her, "And you will beg us to kill you, before the night is done, before we all are done with you. Now," he leaned back and leered at the others, "Who wants to go first?"

"Oh, please!" she scoffed, her voice drowning in sarcasm. "I beg you, spare me the boredom."

"I guarantee you won't find this boring," he snapped back at her, hissing his words.

"Won't I?" she countered, trying to stall, trying to figure a way out of this, trying to make their intended act appear useless and impotent. "It's so obvious. You all are men, I'm a woman, so of course all you can think of to do is to stick your cocks into my cunt." She lifted her head up to look the mage directly in the eye, enunciating each word precisely, putting all the contempt she could muster into each syllable, "How. Boring." She let herself relax back against the stones and the sands, feigning a lack of concern, "Tell you what. I'm a bit knackered after all the running I've just done, so I think I'll take a little nap. Wake me when the real torture starts, would you?" She relaxed her features and closed her eyes, folding her hands over her stomach and ignoring the templar's hand on her chest, composing herself as if she truly was going to nap.

It almost worked. The first mage hesitated, his blood riled up, his hand starting to glow with magic. But then he caught himself, regained control of his emotions, and let the magic dissipate. The laughter he gave was almost sincere. "Again, another nice try. I'll give you credit for being brave, but bravery alone won't stop us. Giddon," he said to his apprentice, "You can have the first go. If she speaks again, cut out her tongue. It's not like she'll be needing that mouth of hers any longer."

Peredura swallowed, clamping her lips closed lest the Venatori think to cut out her tongue anyway. But she wasn't done fighting them yet. She couldn't be. She'd bite and kick and scratch and make them pay for every moment. Briefly she considered using the Mark on her hand, opening a rift, using it to fight them, but there were two things preventing her from doing so. The first of which was, some of them were moving away, no doubt setting up a perimeter in case there were any more scouts out there, and those men moving off would be too far away to be affected by the rift.

But more importantly, she didn't want them to know she was the Inquisitor. They might not rape her then, they definitely wouldn't kill her, but they would hand her over to Corypheus, and she couldn't allow that to happen. If it came down to that or death, she would have no other choice, but until then, she had to stall for time. She had to find another way, some middle ground between torture and captivity, and so far the only idea she'd had was to goad them into beating her severely enough that she could fake death. Not the best of ideas, she knew, and so far it hadn't worked, the leader of this little group of Venatori too level-headed to fall for it, but she had to keep trying… something… anything…

"Take her hands," Giddon instructed the templar, "And hold them above her head. Don't let her go."

Peredura bit off the curse, realizing she almost swore in Tevene, as the templar's hands gripped her wrists like impassive iron chains. He held her fast to the cold desert sands, as Giddon loomed over her, his mouth practically drooling with anticipation. It was tempting, then, to give in and invoke the Mark, but her legs were still free. She writhed and kicked, swinging her legs up at him. He laughed and ducked, easily avoiding her clumsy attempts to hit him. Then he swung out his staff, using the blunt end of it to jab her hard, right in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Peredura gasped and convulsed, distracted with trying to re-inflate her lungs, and by the time she blinked her vision clear, Giddon was on top of her and between her legs, his hands reaching up to pull her helmet off her head.

Quite unexpectedly, she finally got her reprieve, her answer, her middle ground between Corypheus and death.

"Fasta vass, look at her face," Giddon almost gagged on the words, her helmet falling from his nerveless fingers. "What happened to you?!"

Peredura couldn't have known, would never have guessed, how her scarred face might look to someone who wasn't expecting it, especially in the reddish light of the setting sun, sweaty and smeared with blood and grime. Though normally one would assume that blood mages should be made of sterner material, she supposed the shock of it had caught him off guard. Quickly realizing what had made him hesitate, and eager to seize any advantage, she turned her cheek a little, not far, but just enough to catch a little more of the ruddy light, giving him a perfectly clear view. "What, don't you like what you see?" she sneered, curling her lips, knowing how such an expression would twist the scar.

He made a sound of disgust, leaning back from her. "I… can't fuck… that!"

The Venatori leader came back into her view, taking a long hard look himself at the side of her face. "It's only a scar." The words were matter-of-fact, but the tone of his voice was a bit too tightly controlled.

"But it covers half her face," Giddon objected.

"Then don't look at her face," his master suggested, "Or cover it up. Do what you have to, just finish the job." He smacked Giddon hard on the back, almost shoving him into her face. He barely stopped himself, his hands landing to either side of her head, his eyes squeezed shut tight.

Giddon swallowed, but the pressure was on for him to perform regardless of how he felt about her appearance. He tried not to look at her, especially as she continued to grin in such a grotesque and sinister fashion, jealously using what small advantage she had, but he couldn't help himself, his eyes kept flickering upwards, drawn to it like a moth to the flame. In an effort to focus his attention on something other than her features, he took out his knife and started slicing through the toggles on the front of her coat. Yet after every clasp was cut open, his eyes would glance up to her cheek, as if they had a will of their own.

And each time, she would leer even more.

His hand was practically shaking by the time he gripped the high neck of her shirt, the point of the knife threatening to draw her blood. She didn't move, staring at Giddon, willing him to peek at her just one more time, willing him to lose his nerve. But it seemed he finally got control of himself, at least temporarily. The fabric made a soft sound of protest as it tore before the blade.

Giddon made a soft sound himself, barely keeping his gorge from rising. "Vishante kaffas!" he swore, recoiling. The knife dropped from his limp grip to fall forgotten onto the desert sands. "Vishante kaffas! I… I can't…" he mumbled against the back of his hand, fearing he would vomit after all. He looked up at his master and demanded, "Fuck her yourself!"

The other mage growled, shoving Giddon harshly off to the side to see what the problem was now. Peredura lay still, no longer struggling against the templar, no longer kicking or writhing. Her only movement was her chest, rising and falling with her breath, but it was enough to move apart the torn edges of her tunic. The mage stared at her, more precisely at the scarring along her neck. It was growing too dark for him to see clearly, but he could well imagine—as Giddon must have just done—just how ugly and severe her scarring might be underneath her clothing.

Some nameless Venatori soldier off to the side retched, the sound of his last meal splattering wetly onto the sand and rocks. Another soldier near enough to see her also made sounds like he wanted to join his comrade. The mage swallowed and held his gaze steady with a will of iron, but even he could not find it within himself to perform.

"It seems you will get your wish after all, dear girl," he graciously admitted defeat. "Something a bit more imaginative, isn't that what you wanted? Something that wouldn't bore you? Very well. Allow me to entertain you with something from my home country of Tevinter. It's a little rope trick I learned a while back. I guarantee, it will hold your attention for hours, the rest of your life perhaps. It's called, Jig on a Rope."

She barely controlled her nervous swallow, knowing exactly what he was talking about, being from Tevinter herself, but she couldn't let him know that. So she had to play along, she had to play dumb, she had to stall for time. "A jig? You and your men are going to play music, then? Blow on your staffs and beat your swords against the sand?"

He laughed as Giddon handed over a length of rope, unperturbed by her crude innuendos. "Snark away, my pet, while you still have the breath. Lift her up," he directed the templar, "And bring her to that overturned tree there. Those exposed roots should serve well enough. No, little girl, the jig is a dance you'll be performing for us. It's a mode of execution back home in Tevinter. Usually the condemned is stripped beforehand," his eyes swept her from head to toe, a slightly sickened look to his features, "But we'll allow you your dignity."

She didn't sass back at him this time, thankful for the small favor. If they had found the stomach to strip her, then they'd see her scars a bit more clearly and probably recognize them for what they were. Things would undoubtedly go downhill from there. Not that things were going all that great right at that moment, her hands being pulled behind her back and tied tightly together, wrists to elbows. But at least now, she had a chance.

"You'll be strung up in these ropes, partially hanging from them, trussed up like a bird for roasting. There will be one single rope beneath your feet," the templar lifted her up to place her on the rope, "Something for you to stand on, for as long as you can keep your balance. And you should try to keep your balance. Every little wiggle and wobble will affect the other ropes, tugging on them, pulling on the noose around your neck until you suffocate."

The noose was dropped over her face and tightened, the thick braid rubbing into her skin, already partially choking her airway.

"Of course, other things may happen first. Your arms may be pulled up and out of their sockets," he jiggled the rope in emphasis, "Or your ankles dislocated, which would make balancing all the harder."

She couldn't see them, but she could feel the ropes being tied around her ankles, the soldiers yanking on them and making her slide her legs apart, while she fought to keep her balance.

"Every little movement you make, will make your discomfort worse, all the while slowly suffocating you until you finally die. Or," he kicked the rope beneath her feet, nearly dislodging her precarious perch, "Until you fall off the rope and the noose snaps your neck. These are the choices you have. Step off the rope, and your death is quick. Stay on the rope, and your death is painfully slow. Oh, this is a favorite source of entertainment back home. We place bets on the condemned, who will hold out until the bitter end, and who will give in and end their suffering quickly. When there are a whole row of them, we will bet on who will die in which order. It's a grand occasion, especially if the condemned look like they're going to take all day. Even the children will sometimes come by and throw sticks and stones, trying to hurry one or two of them along."

Peredura closed her eyes briefly as the mage laughed. She'd seen such a sight, once, in the time before, while her parents were still alive. They were passing through a village where a local band of outlaws had been captured and condemned to such a death. And the children of the village had been throwing stones, just as he described. They'd even asked her if she wanted to join in the fun, but her father had refused to let her down from their wagon.

"But I'm not going to stick around to find out how long you will last. It really doesn't matter to me. Instead, I am going to leave you alone. To die alone. No one knows where to find you. No one knows they need to come find you. You will die out here, in the desert, tied to this tree, undiscovered. And who knows, your body may remain here for centuries before it's found; I've heard these high, cold deserts can have a mummifying effect on a dead body. I might come back, in a year or so, just out of curiosity and find out. That is, if I even remember you.

"Let's head back to camp," he finished, pacing around behind her and out of sight. "You still need to practice that ritual, Giddon. You haven't quite mastered the cadence yet. Luckily for you, there's still a few slaves left…"

Peredura didn't watch them go, she couldn't, as she was facing west and the last rays of the setting sun and they were heading back east and south. Even though they were heading towards Harding, she wasn't too worried; by now the dwarf would have patched up her leg and started for the main camp. No, she told herself, things were going to turn out alright. All she had to do, was stay awake and not slip.

* * *

"The Hissing Wastes. Another desert; how delightful. I simply cannot wait for the sand to start finding its way into each and every uncomfortable crevice on my person."

Sera made a disgusted noise at Dorian's comment. "There's a sight I wouldn't want to see."

"Oh, don't worry, Dorian," Bull leaned down to rumble softly, and suggestively, "I promise to personally brush off every offending speck from every tender crevice."

"And there's one I didn't need," Blackwall uncharacteristically quipped. He strode around the others and addressed the scout standing at attention. "You, there, we've come to meet up with the Inquisitor. She around?"

"No, Ser," the scout saluted, instantly recognizing the group. The Inquisitor's closest companions were almost as legendary as the Herald herself. "She went out scouting this morning, with Harding and Bostwick."

"This morning?" Dorian queried, looking over at the setting sun. "That was quite some time ago. Shouldn't we be worried that she hasn't come back yet?"

"No, Ser," the scout shook her head, "Scouting's an irregular business. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes it takes a week. It all depends on what's out there to find, which you never can know until you find it. But I wouldn't worry about her; she's with Harding, the best scout I've ever known. If they're not back within an hour or two of sunset, then they've probably found a spot to camp for the night, and we'll see them shortly after dawn. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Blackwall and Bull exchanged a look that went unnoticed by the others.

Dorian nodded and slapped his hands together, already starting to shift sideways. "Lovely. Well, speaking of making camp for the night, we have come quite a long ways today, and I'm bushed. I think I'll get some sleep. And I see there are tents here for us to use; should keep the wind from blowing sand up my knickers," he eyed the tents enviously, already in his mind having claimed one of them for his own.

"You're not turning in yet, are you?" Bull protested. "It's still early, and the Boss might be back in an hour or so. I was thinking of playing a hand or two of cards, you know, to pass the time until we knew for sure she wasn't showing up until morning."

"Deal me in," Sera quickly accepted, "Provided there's a mug or two of ale wit' it, just to wash the dust off. Like silky-knickers said, been a long trip, ha'n't it."

"I'll play," Blackwall agreed, somewhat reluctantly. He didn't enjoy playing cards, but he did realize why Bull was making the offer, and he too felt the need to stay awake until he was sure Peredura was safe, "But I'll pass on the ale. Prefer to keep my wits about me, if I'm playing cards with you."

"Fine, stay sober and boring," Bull knelt down to rummage through his pack, searching until he found a deck of cards Varric had loaned him, "But until the Inquisitor shows up, I'm not on duty. And that means I can drink. You there," he nodded to the scout still standing nearby, "Break out a keg and a couple of mugs. You can get one for yourself, too, if you'd like to join us." He strode over to a small wooden table littered with maps and diagrams. Not seeing anywhere he could set them aside, he swept them off with one hand, which made the other two scouts hasten to pick them up before the wind could take them away. Then he straddled an overturned barrel and began to shuffle the cards. "So, who's in?"

After seeing Blackwall and Sera sit down, Dorian rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh. "Oh, I suppose I could spare an hour or two, not to mention a few coins, just to humor you."

"Good! Now, where's that ale?"

"Coming, Ser," the first scout grunted, bent over a map he had stopped with his boot heel, "Just as soon as we collect a few things."

Bull pretended to only now notice the chaos he had created. "Oh, ah, sorry about that. Take your time. We'll be right here. You, ah, you might want to get that one over there, by the small bush."

The scout swore softly and started after the map, which was threatening to flutter away on the breeze.

"Did you do that on purpose?" Dorian asked, turning away from the scurrying scouts as he came up to the table.

"Maybe," Bull hedged. "Look, I just wanted a moment or two to talk, privately, about Peredura. I do not like the fact that she's not here."

"She came here to learn how to scout," Dorian countered, leaning on his staff, "Why would it be unusual for her to be out there scouting?"

"It's not, but, well," Bull shrugged, "You know her ability for finding trouble, or for trouble finding her. I just know I won't rest easy tonight, not until she's safely back at camp."

Dorian's shoulders slumped, seeing his dream of a peaceful night's sleep slipping through his fingers like the sand slipping inside his collar, and beneath his belt, and past the cuffs of his shoes. He gave another sigh as he sat down on an overturned bucket. "You're right, of course. Deal me in."

"Cheer up, magey-pagey, he might let you win tonight, you know, cuz he's got to keep playin', 'til Harry shows up, at least."

"There is that, yes," he forlornly pulled out his coin purse and dropped it lightly on the table.

"Then again, I don', do I?" she cackled.

* * *

It has to be well past midnight, Peredura told herself. From what she could see of the stars, she gauged half the night must have gone by already. It felt longer, and she prayed she wasn't underestimating the time in trying to compensate for her skewed senses, but there was no way she could be certain, not from the position she was in.

She was facing west, staring into the darkness where the sun had set hours ago. Behind her would be east, east and the sunrise, so she would know it was time when she started seeing shadows stretching before her.

Dawn. That was the time she was waiting for. She had spent the first hour of her torment calculating time, distance, difficulties. She and Harding and Bostwick—poor man—had traveled approximately fifteen miles north-northwest of base camp before they discovered the mages. She might have gone another mile or so, not much further, before she was captured. That would make it sixteen miles from camp. Alright, on a good day, with good light and without any injuries, she could travel four miles in an hour and not even break a sweat. That means base camp was only four hours away.

Of course, Harding had a shorter stride than she did, and was injured, and had to travel at night over unfamiliar ground full of pitfalls and rocks and enemy forces. That easily doubled the time it would require. Very well, it was eight hours to base camp.

But after that, after Harding reached camp, after she told the others where to find her, they'd race here on the horses, probably reach her in an hour, two at the most. Making the total time ten hours. Ten hours she had to stay awake, stay alive, before she was rescued.

At this time of year, it was ten hours from dusk to dawn. She was strung up at dusk. Therefore, she would be rescued at dawn.

She strained to lift her eyes up far enough to see the stars. As the night had worn on, the noose had inevitably tightened, the knot applying pressure to the base of her skull, making her tilt her head downwards just to relieve some of the pressure before it snapped her neck. It was now to the point where she couldn't lift her head without choking herself, or worse.

It had to be after midnight, which meant another six hours until dawn.

Six long hours.

There was a scurrying, scuttling sort of sound off to the side, and Peredura found herself hard pressed not to cringe or whimper. Every little movement, even too deep of a breath, would make the ropes shift and grow more taut. But that sound! Maker's breath! She knew exactly what was making that sound! Spiders! Big ones, too, probably in that hollow off to the side. There'd be some warmer air trapped in that depression, warm enough to keep the spiders nice and cozy for most of the night. But when that heat dissipated, would they leave their little valley and come out looking for more warmth? Could they sense the heat of her body from that distance? And if so, if they came out of their den and started towards her…

Oh, Maker, she prayed, help me. Give me strength. Give me courage. Make me brave, like Cullen. Oh, Cullen, she moaned silently in the vaults of her mind, Cullen, where are you when I need you? I never should have come here. I never should have left your side, or left without The Iron Bull or Cassandra or someone to keep an eye on me. Cullen, what would you do? How would you face this? How would you stay awake, stay so strong, so brave…?

But he wasn't always brave and strong, she reminded herself. She'd seen him weak during his withdrawal from lyrium. She'd even seen him fearful, when they were all but lost in the mountains after Haven was destroyed. What was it he had said, she asked herself, so long ago in Haven? What was it he had told her, about being brave, about facing ones fears, like spiders? It wasn't that bravery was the lack of feeling fear, more that it was doing what you have to do, regardless of the fear you feel. So regardless of the spiders, regardless of the threat of death, she had to stay alive. She had to stay awake and not tremble in fear and keep her neck whole until help could arrive.

Until the dawn.

Perhaps it was thinking about Cullen that brought it to mind, or remembering being in the mountains after Haven, or even simply a need to feel something other than fear, but the words of that hymn came to her mind. The hymn that Cullen had taught her as he recovered from his withdrawal. The hymn that Mother Giselle had led them in singing after Haven. The hymn that made her feel… warm… accepted… a part of something bigger than just her self, than just a group of people lost in the mountains, that just the Inquisition.

It was the hymn that called to her, tonight even more so, considering her current situation.

Her lips barely moving, and without even a breath of sound—her air saved solely for her lungs—she began to sing the hymn, privately, within the chambers of her heart.

_Shadows fall and hope has fled._

_Steel your heart; the dawn will come._

_The night is long, and the path is dark._

_Look to the sky, for one day soon…_


	26. …The Dawn Will Come

Cullen's hand was so tightly fisted, the muscles were beginning to cramp and spasm. He had tried to stay calm, he had tried to relax the fist as Leliana recited Scout Harding's reports, but such a feat proved too difficult for him. He had almost convinced himself that everything would be alright, that if Peredura was… Maker's breath! he didn't dare let himself even think the word… No, Peredura must be alive and safe or Harding would have reported that first thing. The fact that Harding had been sending such a detailed report could only mean that, though things had started out poorly, everything was alright now. Right?

Yet he could only imagine what she must have gone through, alone in the desert, literally running for her life, trying to stay ahead of the Venatori long enough to give Harding a chance to go for help…

"Harding should never have left Peredura," Varric almost raged, his hand slapping the top of the war table, nearly impaling himself on a pin or two. He didn't seem to notice, as riled up as he was over Peredura's imagined predicament, and his own inability to affect it, hundreds of miles away.

"Harding was injured, the Inquisitor was not; she could have made it back to camp much faster," Cassandra added.

"For once, Seeker, we agree," he muttered darkly. "Harding should have been the one to take the risk of capture and lead the Venatori astray. We can afford to lose one scout. We can't afford to lose Peredura …"

"She did exactly right."

No one was more surprised than Cullen to have heard his voice interrupt the dwarf's angry speech, much less that he sounded so calm and emotionless. Still, now that he had spoken, and he had gotten Varric to stop ranting and listen to reason, Cullen found the words continued to slip past his lips, almost of a mind of their own. "Pere had been seen, Harding had not. Pere was physically able to run and evade capture, Harding could not. Harding could, however, remain unseen and make it back to camp, where Pere would not be able to, not with the Venatori already after her. No, I'm afraid Harding did exactly what she had to do, the only thing she could do, really. Not ideal, but they truly had no other choice. And it was the right choice as it turned out, as Harding obviously made it back to camp and has been writing us these reports."

"Which I will continue to relay," Leliana looked around the War Room at all of them, her tone just a bit testy, "If there are no more interruptions."

No one answered, all of them concerned for Peredura, all of them wanting Leliana to get to the end and tell them she was safe and sound. Cullen tried not to imagine what she must have been facing, handing her Inquisitor badge over to Harding before racing off into the growing darkness. He briefly wondered what had happened to her, out there, in the desert, with her enemy snapping at her heels…

* * *

 

_The shepherd's lost and his home is far._

_Keep to the stars…_

_The stars… the stars…_

The words of the hymn seemed to draw Peredura out of her protective stupor. Wondering how far off dawn could be, she began to twist her neck carefully. She found, if she moved slowly, she could tilt her head—at an odd and uncomfortable angle—but it would be just far enough to squint out of the corner of her eye and see the stars. It was the only way for her to accurately gauge the time. But she began to tremble, she was so tired after a full day of scouting, and then trying to run away from the Venatori, and then spending all these hours staying awake and keeping her balance on a thin rope.

Not to mention, her eyes were irritated and bloodshot, full of dry desert air and cold gritty sand. And her line of sight was off, so it was hard to see what was the actual position of the stars. But if she craned her neck just one more fraction of an inch, she could catch just a glimpse of them. Their positions had moved—must have moved!—since the last time she peeked. Was it one hour until dawn? Surely no more than two at the most. If she could just see a little bit more of the sky.

The giant spiders, still secured within their den but growing restless, were making more sounds than before. As she tried to view the sky, her face angled towards their little hollow, no more than a score or so of yards from her. Completely on reflex her eyes dropped to stare as one hairy spider leg lifted up over the lip, feeling the air, trying to sense some source of heat, whether it be sunlight or body warmth, like her body…

Her boot slipped, not too far, but it did jiggle the rope beneath her feet, which in turn through the labyrinth of ropes and loops and knots, jiggled the rope around her neck. The coarse braid dug into her flesh just that little bit more, though thankfully not yet to the point where it choked her. She paused in her movements, after regaining her balance, to force a few breaths past the obstruction. Her skin beneath the rope was raw, open, abraded, and her imagination made her think she could feel blood and pus oozing from the wounds to soak the collar of her tunic.

Fear. Exhaustion. Cold. Despair. All of it began to overwhelm her, and her trembling grew to shaking. First one knee twitched, then the other, the muscles of her legs weakened after her long ordeal, and she finally lost her fight to keep her balance. Both boots slipped this time, the rope beneath her feet bouncing and sending waves through the other ropes. Her arms felt it first, via a maze of connecting loops and knots, and were pulled a little higher behind her back. She tried to gasp, fearing the worst, fearing the end, in the split second that seemed to last almost forever, her final moment, as her feet continued to slide, and she was powerless to avoid the inevitable…

The heels of her boots, more specifically the groove between the soles and the heel, caught the rope, halting her movement with a final and painful jerk. She hung there in the balance, holding her breath, feeling herself suspended literally between life and death, while she awaited her fate. Her arms were pulled so tight she could no longer feel her fingers, and her neck was now half choked around the rope, the knot in back putting painful pressure on her spine right at the base of her skull. For an instant eternity she hung there, wondering what had happened, and what was about to happen. Was she dead? Dying? Or, by some miraculous means, still alive?

The later proved true. The grooves of her boots held fast, preventing any further sliding off of the rope, any further jiggling, at least of the rope beneath her feet. Realizing this, she knew she would be able to keep her feet, with even less effort than before—so long as she kept the rope in the groove of her boot heels. She took a breath, timid, careful, but the air wheezed past her throat and gradually inflated her lungs. A little more confident—despite the pain in both shoulders and the tightness around her throat, or the unnerving scuttling of the giant spiders off to the side, or the supreme exhaustion that threatened to undermine her, or the strength-sapping cold of the high desert—she began to hope she could actually make it.

Her head was at a new angle, the knot of the noose forcing her to face the ground, and she could no longer look at the stars. Yet she would not allow herself to admit defeat, not after this second chance she had just been—miraculously?— granted. She began to watch the ground beneath her feet and the rope, staring at a tuft or two of grass and some scattered rocks, waiting for shapes to emerge. The east was behind her, so when she began to see shadows cast across the ground by those rocks and tufts, she would know the sun was about to rise.

Dawn couldn't be more than two hours away, she told herself. Two hours before she should expect help to arrive. Two hours to stay awake. Two hours to stay strong, stay brave, face her fears like Cullen. Two hours before…

_…the dawn will come…_

* * *

Dorian tried to stifle the yawn, then thought better of it. Why not, he wondered to himself, why not let Bull and the others know he was tired? They had to have been up half the night already, or more, and the scout said if Peredura and Harding weren't back by midnight—which was hours ago—then they must have kipped somewhere for the night. So why shouldn't he be tired? Why shouldn't he find himself a cot in one of the tents and get a bit of shut-eye? Sara was sleeping.

Well, alright, that wasn't exactly fair. Sara was a bit of a lightweight, and after only two mugs of ale, she'd quietly passed out and was now gently snoring beneath the table. She may wake up in the morning with a bit of a headache and a sour stomach, not to mention her normally snarky disposition would be magnified tenfold, but at least she had reached unconsciousness.

As Bull wearily dealt yet another hand and almost numbly intoned the stakes, Dorian realized something: even as tired as he was, even if he had a bed of feathers with silk sheets and not a grain of sand in sight—he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink. Not until he, like Bull and Blackwall, knew for certain that Peredura was alright. He briefly thought about giving Sara a jealous kick, seeing as she had cheated by drinking enough to pass out and get herself some worry-free rest that way, but changed his mind. IF—and he tried to convince himself it was a very big if—if Peredura was in trouble, then at least one of them should be somewhat rested and not silly from sleep deprivation.

"What is that?" Blackwall asked.

Dorian didn't see where he was looking, staring forlornly at the cards in his hand. "Bull said, the ante is two silvers."

"No," Blackwall set down his cards, face up, and pushed himself away form the table. "Out there. Something's moving."

Dorian scoffed, first at Blackwall showing his hand, then at his words—after they'd finally penetrated the fuzzy wool around his head. "Something…?" he repeated, questioningly, lifting his eyes up. He saw Blackwall was staring over Bull's shoulder, and followed his gaze to see that, yes, indeed, there was a shadow moving across the desert sands, a shadow that moved independently of the rocks and shrubs that were out there. He dropped his own cards, also face-up, and rubbed at his eyes to get rid of the dry tiredness, hoping he wasn't imagining it.

"Bah, guys, what are you…?" Bull started, still more focused on the game, but when he finally noticed the other two were staring, and where they were staring, he jumped to his feet and spun around. "Scout!"

It was a reflex, a command, an automated response bred from years of being a leader. "On it, Ser," one of the scouts answered, the one who was on watch. He started out into the desert towards the moving shadow, becoming a shadow himself, and as silent as one. The three men at the table held their breath, the card game forgotten, straining bloodshot eyes to follow the progress of the two shadows as their trajectories slowly merged.

"Lost 'em," Blackwall hummed.

"I… I think he's nearly there…" Dorian squinted.

"He's still ten feet away," Bull rumbled softly, like distant thunder. "Are you telling me, that my one eye is better than all four of your eyes?"

"Fine, then, if you qunari can see so much better than us humans, tell us what's happening," Dorian huffed, retaking his seat, not because he was upset so much as just plain tired. He continued to watch the darkness, however, unable to look away even though there was nothing he could see.

"The scout's stopped, just a few paces away. So's the other shadow. Probably giving a sign and counter-sign to prove they're friendly. Yeah, that's what happen. Scout's moving again, looks like he picked up whatever was moving out there. By the shape they're making now, I think he's carrying the other, helping them to walk."

It was as if Bull's words slowly sank into all three of them at the same time: Someone was approaching the camp, injured.

And as one, all three of them started out into the night towards the two shadows now merged into one. Dorian swung out his staff, casting his spell on the fly, not the one that would shield and protect them from danger, but a simple spell to make the end of his staff glow, giving them all—well, he and Blackwall at least—enough light to be able to see where they were stepping, not to mention see who it was approaching the camp.

"Harding!" Bull barked, in the lead thanks to his longer stride. His horns swung threateningly as his eyes swept the desert behind her for any sign of Peredura. "Where is she?"

Not a thought for the woman's injuries, which must be serious by the way she was leaning so heavily on her fellow scout, but Harding didn't take any offense. "I had to, Ser, she ordered me. Her Worship," her whole arm trembling, she brought out her fist palm upwards and relaxed the fingers, showing them all Peredura's Inquisitor's badge, "She wasn't injured, but she was the one they'd seen. I hadn't been seen. She made me come back for help."

"Stop right there," Blackwall reached them just a pace or two before Dorian. He put a half-comforting, half-restraining hand on Bull's bulging bicep, making the qunari pause before ripping off the scout's head in frustration. "You're not making any sense. Give her a bit of water," he told the other scout, still supporting her, "Let her collect herself. Then tell us what happened, from the beginning."

Dorian blinked, that had to be the longest string of words he'd ever heard coming out of Blackwall's mouth, but he was right. They weren't going to get anything coherent out of Harding until she could catch her breath. He went over to Bull, who was now ignoring the scouts out of spite and staring into the desert, as if by sheer willpower he could make Peredura emerge from the cold darkness. He opened his mouth, fully intending to offer comfort, but found there was nothing he could say, nothing that wouldn't sound hollow or trite. So instead he offered what comfort he could, and sought a bit himself, by simply standing next to the man.

Blackwall ignored his friends, knowing it was more important to keep Harding awake long enough to report, and to do that he'd need to tend the wound on her thigh. "Arrow?" he asked, untying the makeshift bandage and lifting away the ripped edges of her leggings.

"Lucky shot. One of the few that missed Bostwick. Found me, though," she grimaced while Blackwall's thick and calloused fingers probed the wound.

"Through and through," he commented, as if that said everything. "Lost a lot of blood, though. There's potions back at camp that'll take care of this in only a few hours. Now," he tipped a canteen into her mouth and allowed her a swallow or two before taking it away, "What happened?"

"We were out scouting, the Inquisitor, Bostwick, and myself. We were showing her the ropes, and she was doing pretty good. But then we heard screaming. It was…" Harding paused to shudder, and Blackwall didn't let himself imagine what could make a seasoned scout like her turn green. "We went to investigate, and saw a pair of Venatori using slaves to perform blood magic. We thought," she paused again, seeing that she now had Bull's and Dorian's undivided attention at the mention of blood mages, and Blackwall gave her another swallow of water before she continued. "Thanks. We thought we could take them, the three of us, with the element of surprise on our side. The Inquisitor was very adamant about stopping them."

Bull nodded, understanding exactly how she must have felt, seeing blood mages performing their forbidden rituals, but Harding's words continued.

"And we could have, it would have worked, if the Venatori didn't have their own patrol out and scouting, and surprised us instead…" Briefly she filled them in on what happened, Bostwick's death, herself getting shot, Peredura being spotted, and how she commanded Harding to come back to camp for help, while she tried to evade capture.

"You! Just left her! Out there! In the desert! Alone! With Venatori snapping at her heels!" Dorian was so upset, the light from his staff began to pulse and flicker with his emotions.

"She did the only thing she could," Blackwall leaned back from her, passing the canteen to the other scout. "The Inquisitor had already been seen. If she tried to make for camp, she would have led them straight to us."

"Good! Then we could have killed them by now." He was giving vent to his spleen, hoping that by doing so, he could head off any outrage Bull might show over this fucked-up situation. And amazingly it worked—well, for a moment, at least.

"Dorian," Bull thrummed, setting his hand on Dorian's shoulder, but whether to hold him back or offer comfort was uncertain. Yet the reprieve didn't last long. He made a disgusted noise and pulled his hand away to scrub over his face. Suddenly he spun, his fist punching air, as she shouted into the desert, "Fuck!" He paced away, kicking at an unoffending bush, uprooting it and sending it tumbling across the desert sands. Then he stood there for several heartbeats, panting, staring off into the shadows, his mind whirling and calculating and gauging how many hours it was until dawn. "He's right," he groused, meaning Blackwall, and turned back around to face the others, "And the Boss was right. There was no choice. As distasteful and frustrating as it is, no one had any choice. Sorry, Harding, for taking my anger out on you."

"I understand, Ser," she responded graciously, though remaining a little wide-eyed and not quite lifting her eyes higher than the toes of her boots.

"How far?" Blackwall asked, helping Harding to stand so they could return to camp.

"Fifteen, no more than sixteen miles, north-northwest of here," she waved her hand off in the direction indicated, from where it hung over the other scout's shoulder.

Blackwall examined the situation, while the scouts started limping away, estimating distance and time and terrain. "That'll take a good four hours to reach."

"Less, if we run," Bull countered, his eagerness to be off showing in his stance, half crouched already to begin his sprint.

"Even less, if we take mounts," Dorian attempted to have the last say. "No use getting ourselves knackered, racing across ground we can't see, risking broken necks and twisted ankles, when we're likely to come across a nice little fight at the end of it all. Let's get Harding back to camp, rouse Sara, and use some of those weird mount thingy's they use out here."

"Dracolisks, Ser," the other scout offered, calling back over his shoulder.

"Dracolisks, yes, those… animals…?"

"There isn't a dracolisk big enough to carry me," Bull stated, either bragging or complaining, it was hard to tell. "But you'll all need them, to keep up. Come on," he turned, catching up with the scouts in a few quick strides. He plucked Harding from the other's arms and swung her off her feet. "The sooner we can get going, the better. And while we're away, Harding," his voice dropped, sounding slightly malicious, "You can write the report to send back to Skyhold about what happened."

Harding swallowed, not sure if she was more afraid of the qunari, or the spymaster. No one back at Skyhold was going to like what she had to say.

* * *

_Stand your ground, the dawn will come…_

_…the dawn will come…_

_The night… is long… and… and… and…_

Peredura paused, or perhaps she kept silently singing, it was too hard to tell. She was numb. All over. Numb from the cold. Numb from the pain. Numb from the exhaustion. Numb from the fear. She could no longer feel anything, not the ropes threatening to break her ankles, nor the twisting of her arms and shoulders. Not the trembling of her legs, nor whether or not the rope was still safely secured within the grooves of her heels. Not even the choking in her throat.

There was only one thing she felt, one pain that blanketed over everything, blocking out any other possible sensation: the pain of the knot against her spine. That alone remained, almost comforting in its constant assurance that, as long as she felt that one pain, she knew she was still alive. But it was agonizing, this ache that went beyond a sharp hurt into a relentless pressure. It was excruciating. It was torturous. And it was abiding.

Perhaps it was the constant breeze blowing dry desert air and sand into her eyes and clouding her vision. Perhaps it was the constant agony and cold sapping her strength. Perhaps it was the angle of her arms, pressing her shoulder blades against her lungs and keeping her from taking a full breath—even if she could have gotten enough air past the constriction in her throat—but her mind was growing numb, too. Shadows were moving into her limited vision, shadows she should recognize, shadows with long hairy legs and clicking fangs and bloated bodies… but she couldn't muster the energy or focus to react. She could only hang there, motionless, unresponsive, while her nightmare reached its climax, while shadows shifted into shapes, while the sounds of scuttling emerged into giant spiders.

While darkness lightened into grayness.

While a flash of red light exploded the spider that was closest to her, ripping it out of her field of view.

"Nice shot!" Bull acknowledged, but he was too preoccupied to spare more than that. He doubled his speed, all but tearing his massive battleaxe from its sheath on his back, and reached Peredura before the next closest spider could strike. He swung his weapon, the blade slicing through the monster, cleaving it in two. There was a wet squelching sound, followed by two separate thuds as the dead thing hit the ground. But the gruesome death of two of their number did nothing to deter the other dozen or so spiders from attacking en masse. Still, it was a short battle, Dorian and Sera picking off the outer ring while Blackwall joined Bull in protecting Peredura.

The last spider was dead, the only movement that was left was the random leg twitching in the gentle breeze. Bull panted, shoulders heaving, his battleaxe weaving and seeking a target, but there were no more spiders to kill. Good, that meant he could move on to his next task: freeing Peredura. He turned back to the long-dead tree, to Peredura strung up awkwardly in a maze of ropes and roots. He could do it, he was sure of it; he could cut her down in a single stroke, his battleaxe cleaving through everything. He heaved once more, swinging his blade behind him, letting loose a battlecry before bringing the blade down and…

"STOP!"

It almost wasn't enough—almost. Dorian's command reached Bull's ears, and for one fraction of a moment he considered ignoring the man and freeing the Boss, but there was something in his voice, something about the tone and the forcefulness that made Bull hesitate. It was too late for the axe, however, the weapon far too heavy and with far too much momentum to simply stop. Bull hated the idea, but he knew what he had to do. He wrenched, with every ounce of muscle in his body, he wrenched his arms and pulled the battleaxe off course. The blade missed hitting any of the ropes and roots by a hair's-breadth, but it did find the ground, and rocks, chipping and dulling its keen edge as it buried itself halfway into the desert sand.

"Damn-it-Dorian-you-better-have-a-damn-good-reason!" Bull roared as he turned, his displeasure palpable, his lip curled up into a snarl while he massaged his aching shoulders. Blackwall, too, had been about to follow Bull's lead and start chopping from the other side, and he looked like he was taking longer to consider whether or not to follow Dorian's command, his sword halfway to his back in preparation for the first blow.

"I do…" Dorian panted, racing alongside Sera to reach them, hoping he wasn't too late to stop Blackwall. "It's… it's called… Jig… Jig on… Rope…"

Bull's jaw nearly dropped at those words, recognizing them from his time spent in Tevinter. He nearly snapped his own neck, looking back and forth between Peredura and Dorian, but he couldn't deny it now, seeing the ropes' locations and her awkward position. "Fuck!"

"Don' know what'cher talkin' 'bout, fancy-panties." Sera was cross, more so than usual after being awoken early only to learn that her friend was in danger, and then spending the past hour or so pounding over hard desert sand while her headache pounded in time with her mount's feet. Then finally finding Peredura, seeing her surrounded by spiders, knowing how deeply she feared them, but seeing that she wasn't moving… Sera swallowed her own fear and reached for an arrow, seeking comfort in the familiar act. "Start makin' sense, or I'll start shooting, startin' with your hairy arse…" She notched arrow to string, pivoting around to put the mage in her sights.

"My ass isn't hairy," Dorian brushed her threat aside as he absently brushed the arrow tip away from his face. "Besides, your aim is off. This is called, Jig on a Rope. It's a common form of execution back home in Tevinter."

Blackwall finally lowered his sword, carefully and slowly, but he didn't sheathe it. "And why can't we cut her down?"

"Because," Dorian craned and twisted his whole body, his eyes flying as he traced each rope running alongside and around and behind each other. "Because, every small jerk or tug will put extra pressure on the other ropes. Each rope is tied and connected to another, and another, and yet another, until they're all interconnected, pulling on each other, every slightest movement causing the tension to build and tighten. Simply put," he turned back towards the others, "One wrong slice will kill her."

"So what's the right slice?" Sera asked, still not letting go of her arrow, though now aiming towards the ground.

"That's what I'm trying to find. There's only one," he went back to his study of the ropes, "And there's a danger to even cutting that single rope. If it isn't done quickly enough, cleanly enough, if it's tugged too far before it gives…"

"I think we get the idea," Blackwall began to sheathe his sword.

"Don't put that away just yet," Dorian commanded, pointing his finger at the Warden. "I think…"

"Don't think," Bull suggested, though it wasn't out of kindness. "Either know, or don't know. We won't get a second chance at this."

Dorian swallowed, "Point taken. I believe I know which rope it is, but there are two other possibilities."

"Didn't I just say to be sure…"

"I can't be, Bull!" he snapped. "I've never done this to anyone myself, so I only know the theory behind it, not the practice. And usually the person isn't taken down until after they're dead, so cutting the right rope doesn't matter. But I can… I think I can…" he struggled to calm himself, to remain level-headed and think clearly, emotionlessly—but it was too hard with Peredura hanging there, the ropes already so tight she wasn't able to lift her head. He allowed himself the luxury of making sure she was still alive, of seeing her chest moving slightly with her strangled breath, before he forced himself to resume his study of the ropes.

"Why no' just cut the noose what's round 'er neck?" Sera re-aimed her bow.

"Because, though that might keep her neck from breaking, it would put undue stress on the other ropes and cause them to rip her arms off, or crush her ankles into a bloody pulp, or squeeze the breath from her lungs, or yank her backwards and impale her on the exposed roots, or a dozen or so other ways to die I don't want to imagine right now, and she's been up there long enough, has been weakened enough from the torture already, that whatever type of death occurred, it would happen too quickly to stop. So shut up and let me think!"

The silence was deafening, but Dorian told himself he'd feel the regret and apologize for his outburst later. His long fingers traced through the air, following the ropes at a distance, losing and finding and losing their way again and again. He tried to deny it, but his heart dropped into his shoes as he faced the truth: there was no way he could be certain which rope would free her from the labyrinth. As much as he wanted to be sure, as much as he wanted to sound like he knew what he was talking about, he simply could not give a single answer.

"Bull," he swallowed, trying to clear the tightness and dryness out of his throat, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "Bull, I imagine that blade of yours won't cut so keenly right now, would it?"

"Not after getting buried in the sand, no," he grumbled, feeling the mage was in part to blame for the dulling of his blade.

"Alright, then, it's up to you to support her. Don't move her, don't lift her or shift her around at all, but hold her still. And keep her from falling to the ground, once she's freed from the ropes. And support her neck," he added, again glancing at her and again not liking the way her head was angled.

"Got it." Bull walked around to the front of Peredura. Carefully, tenderly, as if he was cradling a human form of filigree, he put his hands on her. "Hey, there, Boss, just relax now. We've got you. Just a few more moments and it'll all be over."

"She conscious?" Blackwall asked, somewhat amazed.

"Mostly," Bull answered. "Her eyes are open, anyway. And her lips are moving, but there's no sound. I think, though, she's… yeah, she's reciting one of those Andrastian hymns." Bull leaned down and put his forehead gently against her head. "Hang in there, Boss, er, I mean, well, you know what I mean."

"Sera," Dorian called out next, "There's a rope here, just this single rope right here, that I'm pointing at. See it?"

"Yeah, so?" she groused, still not happy with him.

He wasn't about to insult her further by asking if she thought she could slice through it in a single shot, he would have to trust that she could do it. "When I tell you to, shoot it. Clean through."

She shifted around him, having to kneel on the ground to find a clear shot, but she found one where she could cut it without hitting any of the other ropes. "Right." Her bow creaked a little as she brought the arrow back and held it, ready for his signal.

"Blackwall."

"Say when and where," he hefted his sword.

"Here," Dorian pointed out another rope, one connected to the noose around her neck, all without touching it, "And whenever you're ready. We'll go off of you. Just let me get into position first."

He grunted, but his eyes remained on the rope, his hands shifting around the hilt of his sword, eager to slice it through.

Dorian had to walk around to the other side, standing dangerously close to Blackwall and where he would be swinging, and dangerously downrange of where Sera would be shooting. He might be hit with friendly fire, but it was the only way he could get his staff close enough to reach the rope he had to sever. "Right, one last thing, then we cut." He focused is willpower, casting a spell over Peredura, the one that would shield her from harm, or, well, any further harm. "Sera, pay attention to Blackwall, time your arrow to slice your rope at the precise moment his sword slices his rope."

"Yeah, figured that already."

"Just wanting to make sure. Alright, Blackwall, it's up to you. Whenever you're ready."

Blackwall nodded. "Three."

Bull shifted his feet, but otherwise didn't move, his grip on Peredura sure and steady. If this failed, he was ready to rip her from the ropes bare-handed.

"Two."

Sera felt her muscles want to tremble and shake from the effort of overdrawing her bow, but she was going to cut that rope even if her arms fell off.

"One!"

Dorian swallowed, his nerves so tense that his bowels turned to water. What if the right rope wasn't one of these three? What if the ropes weren't cut at the same time? What if…?

Then he was out of time, Blackwall's sword flashing in the dawn's light, the twang of Sera's bow filling their ears. Dorian tried not to notice the arrow as it passed through the hemp and narrowly missed the edge of his cowl, nor the breeze that fanned the back of his wrist at the passage of Blackwall's blade. His own rope had disintegrated at the precise moment the other two ropes were severed, burned to ash against the tip of his staff. Then they all held their breath as the three ropes fell away, and then another, and then more, until the labyrinth unraveled completely and dropped to the sands and piled into a snarl.

"A little help here," Bull said softly. "I've got her, but there's still the noose around her neck."

"Allow me," Dorian jumped forward, volunteering before the other two could mess things up. He knew the rope was too tight around her neck to cut through; with the course braid half-buried into her flesh, and the knot digging into her spine, there was no room to work a blade without cutting her. He brought the tip of his staff around and very carefully, very precisely, burned through the hemp one last time.

"Yup, that did it," Bull grunted, feeling her sag against him.

"Her neck!" Dorian nagged, reaching out to keep her head upright and straight. "Hold her still just a moment longer, don't let anything shift. Blackwall, get the ropes around her wrists. Sera, her ankles. Good. Now, lay her down, gently, easy, there may be bones broken already. Careful, now, that's it."

"She's still alive tho', righ'?" Sera's voice was small, all but lost within the cold high desert air.

Dorian's protection spell continued to shimmer around her body, and looking closely he could see her chest continued to move with breath. Slowly she blinked, her eyes moving around until they fell on Bull. Her lips moved, but nothing came out, no words or sounds, other than an anemic wheeze.

"I didn't quite catch that, Boss," he answered her, "But don't worry. We're here. We know what happened. We'll fix this. We will fix this, right?" he meant the last part to Dorian, and lifted his one good eye to him in emphasis.

Dorian knelt down on the sand, mindless of the grains sneaking their way into his shoes, and set a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Everything will be alright now, my dear. Just lie there and save your strength. And don't try to talk. Now, tell me, are you in any pain?"

"You just told her not to talk, then you ask a question?" Blackwall huffed.

"Oh, right, good point. How about this, Peredura: one blink for no, two for yes. Will that work for you?"

He watched as her gaze shifted towards him, the soft brown eyes almost bright red they were so bloodshot. But she blinked them, slowly and obviously, twice.

"Excellent. Now, where were we?"

"You were askin' if she hurt," Sera prompted.

Peredura blinked again, twice. Dorian caught the movement and hovered over her, like a protective spirit, shielding her eyes from the bright rays of the newly risen sun.

"Very well. Let's start at one end, and work our way up. Your ankles?"

One blink.

"Your legs?"

One blink.

"Your arms? Shoulders?"

Again, only one blink.

Dorian closed his eyes briefly, his worst fears seeming to come to light. The ropes had left deep grooves in her arms from her wrists to her elbows that should be stinging at the very least, and her shoulders looked nearly dislocated, not to mention the odd angle of one of her ankles. Though he tried desperately to deny it, he had to confirm the worst. "Your neck?"

Two blinks.

He refused to allow his emotions to show, taking up her hand and giving it a squeeze. "That's to be expected, my dear. But nothing to worry about. It'll fade in time, now that the rope's gone." He patted her hand with his other hand, cupping her fingers around his. Her flesh felt cold and lifeless, and when he moved his other hand away, her limp fingers fell away.

"Fuck," Sera muttered, "Fuck! Fucking fuck! Fucking sand! Fucking ropes! Fucking Vints! Fucking mages!"

"Blackwall…" Dorian eyed the elf meaningfully, "Could you? She doesn't need this right now."

Blackwall moved to take Sera aside, out of earshot of the others at least, but the girl waved him off. "No, it's a'right. I'm a'right. Better now. Jus' needed to get it out of my system."

There was another wheeze, a pale vision of what might have been words, coming up from Peredura's lips. Dorian turned back to her and chided, "No talking, remember? Whatever it is you think you need to tell us, don't bother with it right now. We can manage to figure it out for ourselves, I assure you. Bull," he looked up at the qunari, "This is going to take more than a healing potion to fix. We're going to need to get her back to civilization. Quickly."

"I'll carry her," he nodded, smiling fondly down at her, "It'll be just like that one time, coming back to Haven after you'd broken your leg…"

"No," Dorian was shaking his head, breaking over Bull's little reminiscence. "No, no, no. It won't work, just to carry her. We're going to have to brace her neck, keep it from moving—and anything else that might be broken—until we can reach a healer who can set things right. And I'll have to come with you, making sure she's continually protected by my spell. And there's no way I'm keeping up with you on foot."

"What do you suggest, then?" Blackwall hummed.

Dorian swallowed, knowing no one was going to like it, but also knowing it was their best option. "Back down the slope, at the campsite we passed."

"Where the mages were practicing their blood rituals?" Sera pressed.

He nodded. "There was a cage there, on wheels, abandoned because one of the wheels had been bent out of shape against the rocks. If we took the bars off, and removed two of the wheels, we could tie it up behind one of these dracolisks and use it like a cart."

"Could work," Blackwall nodded, trying not to think of the gore and mess they'd seen around that site, nor the mess that was still in the cage. "Sera and I will head there and get started. Catch up when you can."

"One more thing," Bull started, standing and facing Blackwall before he could move off. "Dorian and I will take the Boss to Val Royeaux, it's the closest city, and the Inquisition has a presence there, so it'll be safe. While we're doing that," his tone was like soft thunder, his one good eye boring into Blackwall, "I want you and Sera to hunt down the bastards who did this. Find them, track them, but do not take them down. Save them for me, Blackwall," Bull's voice dropped even deeper, becoming an almost subsonic rumble. "I'm not asking."

Blackwall straightened, refusing to back away from the force of Bull's fury, "Then I suggest you hurry back. I won't make a promise I can't keep."

* * *

Cullen felt the sweat, cold and irritating, like an insect crawling across his skin, finding that one place where he couldn't reach. He didn't flinch, didn't even twitch, almost relishing the discomfort as a sort of punishment for… what, exactly, he could not name, but knowing that Peredura had suffered, was possibly suffering still, and here he stood safe and warm in the middle of Skyhold…

"That's the last report," Leliana confirmed, dropping the parchment down with the others, almost blanketing the War Table. "Bull and Dorian passed the base camp on their way to Val Royeaux, so we would know where they were taking her. I predict it'll take them at least five days to reach the city, perhaps a day longer."

"I could make it in four."

Cullen didn't realize he had spoken out loud, not until Leliana answered him. "My thoughts exactly, Commander. I'll leave the details to you, but I would think that… twenty should be about right."

"Only twenty?" Josephine countered, "Would that be a large enough Honor Guard for someone of the Inquisitor's stature? This is Orlais, after all, and we must make an impression."

"But we already have a presence there," Leliana countered, "A whole estate, fully manned and equipped, in the very heart of the city, if I'm not mistaken. Besides, the Commander wants to travel light and quick; and a twenty-man escort will slow him down enough as it is." She turned back to Cullen, giving a nod of consent. "Go, Commander. Meet our Inquisitor in Val Royeaux, and bring her back home, safe and sound."

Suddenly Cullen realized he was being dismissed. Not only that, but he had just been given orders to go to Val Royeaux, to go to Peredura, to see for himself that she was alive and ensure she was restored to health. There was nothing else he wanted to do more, and being ordered to gave him the perfect excuse to indulge the personal and secret desire, which, of course, made him feel guilty. None of this showed, however, as he snapped off a smart salute. "We'll leave within the hour."

He turned to leave, his mind already working out what he would have to do; perhaps one hour might be cutting it a bit close. He didn't make it two steps, however, before he hit his first delay. Well, not exactly hit, as he kept himself from walking into Cassandra, but she was barring his path to the door. "Seeker?"

"Commander," she began, then stopped, then opened her mouth, then shut it.

"Yes?" he prompted, shifting his feet as if to keep walking, feeling himself in a bit of a desperate hurry, and her hesitation was aggravating.

"I won't go with you," she started at last, "I want to, but I won't invite myself along. It's not my place. But, I feel responsible, in part, for her leaving for the Hissing Wastes, after what happened in the Fade and… I just… I want her to know… Could you tell her… I don't blame her for what happened to the Divine. I was shocked when I learned the truth, yes," she squared her shoulders, forcing herself to face Cullen, to face her own guilt, "But I know she's not to blame. Could you tell her that? She needs to know that I… I still think of her… as the little sister I never had."

Cullen managed half a smile for the woman, "I'm sure she knows that already, but yes, I'll tell her."

"Thank you, Cullen."

"Now, if you don't mind…" he gestured meaningfully towards the door. She gave a small sound of surprise, as if just realizing she was still blocking his progress, and stepped aside. She didn't watch him leave, afraid she might change her mind and invite herself along after all. Instead she kept herself still, facing the reports scattered all over the War Table, until there was the heavy thud of the massive double doors closing behind him.

After Cullen was safely out of earshot, Leliana gave a heavy sigh. "I wonder some days if he's figured it out yet."

"Doubtful," Josephine hummed, tapping the tip of her quill against her cheek, "But there's hope."

"Figure what out?" Cassandra was pulled from her dark musings by the cryptic conversation. She looked from one to the other, but neither woman answered her. Solas, too, seemed unwilling to make eye contact.

"Never mind, Seeker," Varric patted her arm, just above the elbow, "I'll explain it to you, when you're a little bit older."

Solas smiled sadly at that, but continued to remain silent.

Cullen had no idea of the conversation—alright, gossip—going on behind him. He was already outside in the courtyard and planning the trip. Twenty men wasn't too large of a force, and if he picked the right ones, they should be able to move almost as fast as one man alone. "Abbets!" he shouted, entering the barracks. "Devensport!"

"Here, Ser!" Devensport jumped to attention, Abbets from the bunk across from him. Neither man showed any surprise at being called out; they had more duties than guarding the Inquisitor when she was at Skyhold. Like the other soldiers, they took their turn at watch, or patrols, or guarding supply trains. Thinking this was just another random assignment, they were completely unprepared for what came next.

"Pick men, eighteen of the best former templars we have. We're going to be riding hard for Val Royeaux, and I want to be there by the end of the week."

"Ser?" Devensport queried, but seeing the expression on the Commander's face darken, he reconsidered his reaction. "I mean, Ser! Yes, Ser! Right away, Ser!"

"Good man. Meet me by the stables when you're ready. I want to leave within the hour, if possible."

"Of course, Ser!" Devensport answered, again for them both. He didn't ask any silly questions, like why they were going to Val Royeaux, or what to expect when they got there, or why the rush. The fact that the Commander himself was going, and that he knew Devensport and Abbets were two of the Inquisitor's favorite guards, could only mean they were meeting her Worship herself.

"One more thing," Cullen had been about to turn away, but paused to ask, "Do you happen to know where Fear is, the Inquisitor's mabari?"

"I, er," Abbets answered this time, "I believe that Charger, Krem, was taking the pup hunting or something, early this morning. Probably's in the tavern with the other Chargers by now, though, this late in the day."

Cullen almost smiled. "Excellent. Thank you."

Abbets swallowed after the Commander left, feeling his knees shake while he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

"I know, right?" Devensport also swallowed. "Poor little thing must be in some sort of trouble with the Chantry again, or something. Come on, Abbets, we better round up the others and get to the stables BEFORE the Commander expects us to. Who do you think we should bring?"

Abbets didn't answer right away, his hand now shaking, as he picked up his lyrium kit and slipped it inside his pack.

Cullen marched into the tavern next, not a place he frequented, feeling the press of bodies a bit too stifling, but he ventured inside today on a mission. The hound spotted him first, giving out a happy bark of welcome, his stub of a tail practically vibrating with joy. Cullen acknowledged him, noting that he didn't have to lean over quite as far as he used to, to cratch the pup's ears, as the animal continued his rapid growth to adulthood.

"Commander, nice to see you," Krem grinned as he strode up to him, a mug in hand. "Here to collect Fear, are you?"

"That obvious?" he queried.

"Nah, it's only that you never come in here, not to socialize at any rate," Krem paused to take a swig. "And then everyone's been talking all morning, about the flock of ravens coming in with messages. Must be something big brewing, something to do with the Inquisitor undoubtedly. So of course if you're here, you'd be looking for her mabari. Am I right?"

Cullen didn't look to be impressed with his reasoning. "There's one other thing I'm here for, a favor, if I may be so bold."

"Oh?" Krem's arm stopped, his mug halfway to his lips, "What's this? The Inquisition's Commander asking a favor of the Iron Bull's lowly Chargers? Got another lost supply shipment? Or an old fort to be cleared out and scavenged?"

"I'd like to borrow your healer, Stitches, if I may."

Krem paused for half a heartbeat before answering, all joking set aside in the brunt of such a serious request, "I'll fetch him for you, myself. Excuse me, Commander, Fear."

Cullen waited until he had moved off, back to the corner where the other Chargers were gathered. Then he dropped down onto one knee, to be at a closer eye level with the hound, and began talking quietly. "Listen, Fear, I need to speak with you. This is serious, so before you give your answer, I want you to think about this very hard. I'm going to Val Royeaux to meet your partner, Peredura. It'll be a long journey, a hard journey. We'll be traveling day and night, hardly pausing to rest, much less to eat. If you come with, you won't be coddled, you won't be carried, you won't be indulged. You'll have to travel on your own four paws all the way there. You'll be cold and tired and hungry before the trip is through, but at the end of it all, will be Peredura. And she needs you right now. You can stay here," he leaned back a little, looking around the room, "Stay with Krem and the Chargers; I'll be bringing Peredura home as fast as I am able. So there's no shame if you'd rather wait here for her…"

Fear barked, sounding somewhat hurt or incredulous. Immediately he took Cullen's hand in his mouth and started to tug, gently, as if wanting to lead him towards the door. Cullen stood but didn't take a step, "Hold on, Fear, we need to wait for Stitches. She's going to need him, too, though not as much as she needs you."

Fear let go of Cullen's hand and tilted his head. He knew. He knew better than anyone—better even than his partner—what she needed. Whom she needed. So of course he was going with, no matter how hard the journey, if only to make sure that Cullen got there in one piece.

"You asked for me?" Stitches said from behind them.

"Yes, thank you, Stitches, you don't have to come, but…"

"Save your breath, Commander," he held out a hand, palm frontwards, as if to physically stop Cullen's words. "You asked for me, specifically. Only one reason why. And of course I'll come, for her. Lead the way. I'm ready," he hefted his pack over one shoulder in emphasis.

Fear barked, once, in acknowledgement, before taking Cullen by the hand and leading him towards the door. Sometimes, one just had to take matters by the hand, literally, to get things moving.

"Alright, Fear, alright, we're moving. Stop pulling so hard."


	27. Defeated by Three Little Words

The desert seemed to go on forever, the landscape unchanging, as if the Maker had run out of imagination when he got to making this part of the world, and simply put down the same pile of rocks, followed by the same sand dune, followed by the same ancient and long-dried-up stream bed. At least, that's what Dorian told himself, much easier to think of it that way, than to admit he wasn't able to pay attention any longer, to notice the subtle differences.

Or to even care.

He stumbled beside Bull, who was holding the reins of the two dracolisks pulling the cart. HE seemed to have an endless supply of energy. HE hadn't needed to stop and catch his breath, or to scarf down a bite of food, or even to take a piss. Dorian tried not to complain, in fact he'd had neither the breath nor the energy to say a single word for the past league or more, but Andraste's wedding gown!—he'd be glad when they reached Val Royeaux. Civilization. Cooked meals. Clean bedding. Shade…

Suddenly he jerked himself awake, not having realized he'd dozed off, much less climbed up onto the back of one of the dracolisks. "What the…"

"Oh, you awake, now?" Bull asked, jogging up beside him. "Good, I was worried this might be too much for you, when you collapsed back there."

"Erm, how long was I…" he stopped, twisting around to get a good look at the cart behind him, "Peredura! My spell! Did it wear off?" There was a covering over the makeshift cart, protecting its occupant from the unending sunlight, and preventing Dorian from seeing anything from his current angle.

"Slow down, take it easy," Bull assured him, patting his thigh, "You've only been out an hour or so; and your spell hasn't worn off yet. She's fine, well, as fine as she can be. I just checked. Sleeping, at the moment. Like you should try to do."

"I… I can't…" he sighed, grimacing. Fasta vass, but the thought of sleep was too tempting, like that aged brandy he used to sneak from his former master's cellar. "Bull, I have to…"

"You have to save your strength for when it's needed, like casting that spell of yours, and not racing through the desert on foot," he countered. "Go on, try to rest. I'll keep an eye on the Boss, and wake you when the spell starts to fade. Go on, Dorian," his voice softened just a little bit, "You can trust me."

Dorian managed half a smile, "I know I can, Bull. It's just that…" His words faded away, far too inadequate to describe his feelings.

Bull sighed, rubbing at a bit of sand that had worked its way in under his eyepatch. "Yeah, I know what you mean, I feel the same way, too. But we've still got a ways to go; no use getting ourselves worked up over stuff we can't do anything about."

"I suppose you're right." Dorian twisted around again, not that he could tell if Peredura was still resting or if the spell was still in place, but looking at where she was lying seemed to help him feel better. And, thankfully, it helped him accept Bull's advice. "Fine, I'll take a little nap. Be a good lad and wake me when dinner's ready, would you?"

Bull laughed, not because he thought anything was funny, but because Dorian needed an audience for his quips. "Will do, Vint." He impregnated all the innuendo and promise he could into the racial slur.

He was rewarded, seeing how Dorian's cheeks warmed, and not just from the sunburn. "Ox-man."

He laughed again, a little easier this time, and strongly suggested, "Get some sleep." He waited, jogging next to the dracolisk, until Dorian managed to find a comfortable position where he could doze without fear of falling off. Then slowly, quietly, Bull allowed his pace to slow until he was jogging beside the cart.

Peredura didn't look well, obviously. The welt around her neck was more like an open wound, slicing a swath through the skin, sand-crusted blood scabbing over it all, definitely threatening to scar—as if she needed any more scars. The skin above and below where the rope had been was bright red and angry, probably becoming infected. If only they could give her a healing potion, it would all clear up. But Dorian insisted they needed to make sure her neck wasn't broken first, or any other bones, before allowing her to heal. Hence the mad race to Val Royeaux and the healers they would find there.

Not that they hadn't done what they could for her. They had used strips of fabric and bits of wood, straps and buckles from their packs, and anything else they could scavenge, even an old cloak for padding, to support her head and keep her neck from moving—he tried really hard not to think of how similar her current situation was to that jig-rope-thing the Venatori had done to her. But the restraints that Bull and the others put on her was to help her, not harm her. They had braced her shoulders, and her wrists, and her ankles… pretty much from head to toe she was strapped and shored up and unable to move. But he wasn't too confident that it would be enough, seeing as how the makeshift cart bounced and wobbled over the terrain. Dorian's spell should be keeping any new injuries from forming, or any present injuries from worsening, but Bull trusted magic about as far as he could throw it, or throw a mage, which okay was pretty far, but not far enough.

He blinked and came out of his brooding, noticing something; her eyes were open. Not too far, just a pair of dark slits against her pale skin, and half-hidden in the shadows beneath the canopy shielding her head and shoulders—wouldn't do to allow the Inquisitor to suffer a sunburn on top of everything else. But she looked like she might be awake.

"Ah, hey, there, Boss," he started, softly, in case she wasn't really awake, but thinking if she was awake, then she might appreciate a word or two of what was happening. "Suppose you're wondering what's going on, huh? We're… Dorian and I… we're taking you to Val Royeaux. Gonna get you patched up, good as new, once we get there, don't worry about a thing. Still have a day or two of traveling, though, so lie back and relax. We've got this. Okay?"

She might have blinked, he wasn't too sure, but then a single blink would have meant something to the negative. He was about to try reassuring her again, when he saw her actually move, a small gesture due in part no doubt to how she was currently trussed up, but it gave him more encouragement than if Cullen had suddenly appeared with a score of Inquisition soldiers and a healer or two for good measure.

She twitched her thumb, raising it upwards for half a heartbeat, before dropping it back down.

"That's right," he leaned over and patted the hand, "Horns up."

She smiled, slightly, briefly, then seemed to grow lax once more. He peered in closer, but her eyes were definitely closed. "Good girl, get some rest," he thrummed, noting again all her injuries, making sure the straps were secure and the spell was still intact. He was going see her and Dorian safely to Val Royeaux; he would not fail her in that! But then he was returning to the Hissing Wastes. He was going to catch up to Blackwall and Sera. He was going to find those Venatori blood mages. And he was going to make every last one of those bastards pay for what they did to her. A thousand times over!

* * *

They were traveling far too fast to make idle conversation, not that Cullen was in a very talkative mood. He'd explained the situation, briefly, to the score of templars and Stitches before setting out from Skyhold. Since then, they'd pushed their mounts hard, racing to Val Royeaux. He felt guilty for the strain it put on the horses, but as long as the animals could keep the pace, and Fear didn't fall behind, he would continue to race.

The soldiers didn't complain, not that soldiers ever did—especially templars. These were men and women who had regularly watched over Peredura ever since Haven. These were seasoned veterans, skilled warriors, strong in their faith, and willing to make sacrifices for others.

And Cullen knew every single one of them by name. Abbets and Devensport had chosen well.

Stitches, on the other hand, was not a templar. And he did have opinions, and voiced them, with no regard for rank or discipline. However, Cullen did listen, seeing as the healer only commented when the horses were showing signs of fatigue, or Fear was having trouble keeping up—if he allowed anything to happen to that hound, Peredura would never forgive him. So whenever Stitches would make some sort of dry comment, Cullen would call for a rest, and they all would dismount and find someplace comfortable, and Fear would flop down on the ground beside him exhausted.

It was during one of these rests, three nights into their journey, while Fear lay beside him in a deep sleep, the hound's maw drooling on his thigh, that Cullen finally realized the truth. He'd been thinking—about Peredura, of course—about the danger she faced on what seemed like a daily basis. About the mark on her hand and the rifts and demons. About Corypheus and the rogue mage still at large—Maker damn him—and archdemons. About the time they fought a dragon, and how she'd feared for his safety, and how he'd feared for hers. About Adamant and how he'd had to trust her to do her part while he did his part. About her latest run-in with Venatori and how they'd left her to die.

And that was the point. She could have died. She could have died a dozen times over these past few months… a hundred times over… and he, Cullen, had never once told her how important she was to him…

As his thoughts came crashing to a staggering halt, overwhelmed by the abrupt realization, his hand paused its movement, the nails still buried in the short fur of the mabari. He had been absently stroking Fear's head, offering what comfort he could to the hound, hoping to keep any nightmares at bay. But his own nightmare suddenly flooded his thoughts. What if, somehow, someday—and it was quite possible—Peredura were to be killed? She'd be dead and gone, forever out of his reach, never to hold her again, never to steal another kiss, never to press himself against her and FEEL ALIVE.

That's what she'd done for him, more than helping him through his withdrawal and offering comfort and support when the days got rough and the temptations and shakes and visions seemed unrelenting. More than giving him something to fight for, someone to believe in, a cause to follow and a purpose for his life now that he was no longer a templar. More than these silly games of flirting that they played, the stolen kisses, the accidental touches, the comments laced with secret meanings. He had been all but dead himself to the world after Kirkwall, ever since Kinloch really, doing very little more than going through the motions, a sad and hollow mimicry of a man. But she had breathed life back into him. She had awoken him from his coma. She had broken down the barriers and found a way into his heart and made it beat once more.

She had made him…

"Ser?"

…love her.

"Ser!" Devensport repeated when it seemed as if his Commander hadn't heard him. He was fairly certain the man was awake, but then again, he remembered hearing stories of how Commander Cullen could sleep standing up with his eyes wide open, so he wouldn't be surprised if the Commander was indeed sleeping while propped up against a tree. He thought about reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder and give a gentle shake, but then thought better of it when he saw the Commander's fist clench. "Ser…?"

Cullen needed time, he wanted time, to let the realization sink in. Maker's breath, but it was staggering to imagine that she… that he… but Devensport's pestering was insistent. Cullen relaxed his fist and set it back on Fear's head, though the mabari was already alerted that something was up, his eyes open and watching and waiting. "Yes?" He was fairly proud of himself, for not having shouted at the man, in fact, for sounding almost calm.

Devensport straightened back up, not wanting to crowd the man, now that he had his attention. "Abbets' returned from scouting. Said he found a stables not too far ahead, where we can change to some fresh mounts."

Cullen nodded, giving the hound's head a final pat, before dislodging it and forcing himself to his feet. "Excellent. We will be able to push a little harder again. Might make Val Royeaux by sunset tomorrow."

"Yes, Ser," Devensport agreed.

"Well, don't just stand there, get everyone saddled up. The sooner we get fresh mounts, the sooner we can pick up the pace."

Devensport snapped a smart salute and spun to carry out his orders. Cullen didn't watch him, however, knowing he was able to trust the men under him to do their duties and follow orders. Besides, there was a rather thick skull pushing at the back of one knee, almost collapsing him to the ground once more. "Sorry, Fear," he sounded only a slight bit contrite as he apologized to the hound, "I know you're tired and need to rest. But we need to get there. I… need to get there… to see her… I," he paused, still somewhat amazed and a bit in shock over what he had just discovered, but… "I know, now. I know what it is that I need to tell her. And thank the Maker," he swallowed, the words never more sincere and heartfelt, "Thank the Maker, it's not too late."

Fear tilted his head, considering, but what was going through his brain was a mystery Cullen would never fathom. Suddenly he jumped up on his hind legs, placing one paw on Cullen's thigh in what could be taken to be a comforting manner, somewhat like a friend setting a consoling hand on another's shoulder. Then he dropped back down onto all fours and padded over to Cullen's mount. The well-trained and seasoned horse eyed the mabari with respect and did not show any fear of him, but it also gave him a bit of extra space.

Well, Cullen thought to himself, even if Fear hadn't understood everything he said, he had understood enough. "Right. Time's wasting. Let's get going."

* * *

Val Royeaux. There it sat, sprawling on the horizon like a lady in her boudoir, pure and pristine, elegant and rich, and distant and unattainable. It seemed so tantalizingly close, yet Dorian knew they had to be a good hour or more from reaching it. This was the hardest part of their race, to be so close to the finish, to be able to see their goal, and to have to ignore the weariness that suffused every single muscle, even their bones, just so they could reach it.

His attention wavering, he stumbled on a rock, gasped, and nearly dropped his side of the cart.

"Easy, man," Bull reached out, tugging Dorian upright by his robes, "We're almost there."

"How…" he panted, but shook off Bull's touch and resumed his pulling of the cart, "How… can you… just… ugggggggghhhhhhh!"

They had ridden the dracolisks hard, to the point where the animals had both given up. It was wrong, it was cruel, but they'd had no choice. They did leave the mounts near an Orlesian farm, hoping the new owners would take better care of the animals than they had, and continued on foot.

It was slower going with the two of them now having to pull the cart, but they hadn't the coin to buy fresh horses.

Bull didn't bother trying to answer his question, his eye seeing further and sharper than Dorian had seen. "Ah, Dorian…" he started, and stopped, suddenly.

Dorian pounded onward a few paces before it registered that Bull hadn't finished his sentence. "What?" When the qunari didn't answer right away, his weary-befuddled mind began running through the standard list of dangers. "What is it? Peredura? Did the spell wear off? Or are we under attack? Is it a bear?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Bull shook his head, slowing his pace to a stop and allowing Dorian the chance to catch his breath. "It's just, well, ah…"

"Wha…?" Dorian hadn't the strength to finish the word this time. He'd been staring at the ground beneath his feet, his only concern staying on the road. Now that they had stopped, he had the chance to look up at Bull and see where he was looking further down the road. Dorian followed his gaze, though it was another few seconds before he saw what Bull had seen. In a panicky squeak, he gasped, "Soldiers!"

"Friendlies," Bull assured him, "Inquisition. By the looks of the uniforms, I'm guessing some of Leliana's spies, erm, I mean, scouts. And they've brought a carriage for you and the Boss."

"Thank the Maker." Relief flooded through Dorian, taking away the fear and anxiety, along with the strength in his knees. His legs buckled and dropped him onto the road. Despite the city being so close, despite help finally arriving, he had nothing left. "That's a sight for sore eyes. We made it!"

Bull didn't try to pick him up, much less force him any further, and set his side of the cart down on the roadway. Their guys would be here soon; they'd help take the Inquisitor into the city. Dorian and Peredura would be safe now. And that meant that he could… but he shouldn't… and yet he wanted to… "Dorian, I…"

The mage's dark brows curled as he looked up at the big gray beast beside him. "What is it?" But the giant didn't answer him, not verbally anyway. Dorian studied his posture, the way he tensed his shoulders, the way he stared at the help arriving, the way his lips mumbled calculations of time and distance without a breath.

Fasta vass, he was exhausted, but he struggled to his feet, bracing his hands on his knees, tilting his head to look back at him. "Bull?" The qunari turned towards him, his expression flooded with pain, torn between duty and personal desire. But Dorian had the wind in his sails now, he knew he could ease Bull's suffering with a single command. "Go."

The man trembled, but didn't move.

"I wish I could go with you," Dorian continued, trying to sound unconcerned as he pushed off his knees to lean against the cart, "But I've already slowed you down enough as it is. It's alright. We're alright. The scouts will be here in a few minutes, far too short of time for anything dangerous to happen to us, even with Peredura's usual bad luck. So you've done your duty to the Inquisitor. Besides," his gray eyes gave a mirthful twinkle "You know Blackwall isn't going to wait for you. You better catch back up to him, if you want to join in on any of the fun."

Bull growled, low and dangerous, like a wolf giving warning before defending itself, but all the heat and anger was directed inward, at his inner turmoil, his duty to see Peredura to safety and his desire to rain vengeance upon her tormentors. He pulled his gaze away from Dorian to look back at the scouts, then turned slowly in a circle to make sure there were no nearby dangers, before settling his gaze on Dorian's face once more. The indecision, the strife he was suffering between his obligations and his desires, continued to flood his features. "Dorian…"

"Don't get all mushy on me now, you big gray lump of nothing but muscle and rage," he patted Bull's cheek, feeling like he was getting a bit mushy himself. Must be the exhaustion speaking. "Go. Hurry. Before I change my mind."

He hesitated, only a moment, staring into Dorian's veiled eyes, catching a glimpse of what has hidden deep inside. Then he cupped his face and pressed their lips together, short, sweet, and far too brief.

Dorian had closed his eyes, purely on reflex, instinctively wanting to focus on the sensation, so he didn't see Bull pull away. He didn't see Bull turn and start racing off, back the way they had come. Nor did he want to. He held himself still for a minute or longer, waiting, before he risked opening his eyes and turning around to check on Peredura. He could not have watched Bull leave.

* * *

Cullen's steps were heavy as he climbed the stairs. "The men are exhausted and need to rest; make sure there are others there in the stables to care for our horses."

"Already done, ser," the scout, racing to keep up with him, acknowledged.

"And they'll need a hot, freshly cooked meal, something hearty."

"Being served as we speak, ser."

"The hound will need a bit of nourishment as well, real food, and none of those fancy Orlesian treats made from Maker knows what," he scoffed, reaching the landing at the top of the stairs and pausing as he tried to determine which hallway to take. "No, he will need fresh water, and fresh meat, the bloodier the better."

"Ser," the scout repeated, gesturing which direction they should go. He gave up trying to explain how matters were already being taken care of. After all, the Commander was only performing his due diligence, seeing to the needs of his troops. He hurried after Cullen as he stalked down the hallway. "Ser, would you care to inspect your chambers, Ser?"

The man thought he was being considerate, but Cullen's own comfort and rest was furthest from his self-tortured mind. "No, I most certainly would not. I must see the Inquisitor, first. Which room is…?"

"I said, no, thank you very much, but we'll have our own healers look after her."

The words were sudden, bursting from around a corner, as if someone had just opened a door, spilling the argument out into the hallway.

"But, ser, I am from the Grand Cathedral. I've tended to the Divine herself. Surely you cannot object to my qualifications."

"I can. And I do."

"But… but the Chantry mothers sent me personally. They know they were wrong about the Inquisition. They only want to help. That's why I'm here. To offer my services as a form of apology."

"Apology accepted. Now, there's no more reason for you to stay…"

"What's going on here?" Cullen rounded the corner and stalked up to where Dorian was standing in a doorway, blocking it, preventing another man from regaining entry. His hands were up, open palmed and facing the healer, looking like he had just shoved the man—and was ready to do so again should the need prove necessary.

"Commander!" the relief in Dorian's voice was as thick as the emotion and exhausting that painted his features. "Am I ever glad to see you. Be a good fellow and use your blade thingy and send this quack packing, would you?"

"I'm not a quack!"

"It's called a longsword," Cullen also corrected Dorian. He finished approaching, however, and pointedly sided with him by standing next to him in the doorway—Maker, but it was nearly impossible not to sneak a peek inside to see her! Instead, he forced his broad back to block the view, his wrist resting negligently on the hilt of the massive weapon as he turned to face the healer, "And you are dismissed."

"But, ser," the man sounded half-exasperated, half-pleading, "I was told the Inquisitor was not well, that she needs a surgeon…"

"We've brought our own," Cullen stated, simply, cleanly, and finally. When the healer looked as if he would sputter more protests, Cullen shifted his feet, standing a little taller, his hand slipping from resting on top of the hilt, to encircling the sheath in preparation for holding it steady to draw the weapon.

"And I'd like to see my patient, if you three wouldn't mind," Stitches' voice joined the discussion, coming around the same corner Cullen had just passed. He barely kept himself from starting at the suddenness of Stitches' arrival; the Charger must have been only a few paces behind him, foregoing the fresh cooked meal and long-overdue rest, possibly as concerned for the Inquisitor as the rest of them. "You, go away," he wiggled a few fingers at the other healer, immediately dismissing him as irrelevant, refusing to give the man enough credit to even argue with him. Then Stitches turned to the two men standing in the doorway, making parting motions with his hands, "And you two, step aside."

"Of course," Dorian quickly agreed, moving out of the way by stepping into the room in front of Stitches. Cullen was fast on Stitches' heels, all but slamming the door behind him, effectively ending the scene with the Chantry's healer.

But the scene he walked into was a nightmare—the nightmare he'd been fearing all through his journey.

The drapes were opened partway, enough to flood the room with the late afternoon sunlight. The furniture was dark and sturdy, the room intended for someone masculine no doubt, but efforts had been made to soften the furnishings. Someone thoughtful had brought in flowers, a dozen or so bouquets littering the dresser and tables and furnishings, adding bursts of color wherever one looked as well as a subtle floral fragrance. A fire was merrily roasting in the hearth, adding soft light and softer warmth to the room, the crackling sound gentle and comforting and lending a feel of home. There was also a massive bed in the center of the room, piled high with feather pillows, a thick and silky comforter folded at the foot and ready for use.

Despite all of this, Cullen felt his as if he had just walked waking into his darkest nightmare. Peredura lay in the middle of the bed, still in her stained and travel-worn clothing, still in her splints and padding. She looked thin and frail, smaller than ever, more a toy than a child, a broken toy that was in dire need of mending. She was so hurt, so battered, so STILL—she might very well be dead. He stayed back beside the door, wanting to go closer, but also afraid of having his worst fears, his worst anxieties, confirmed.

Harding had passed along a brief description of how Peredura had been found, trussed up in ropes, hanging from the massive roots of an ancient and uprooted tree, left there to slowly strangle to death. He half listened as Dorian repeated the same information, but with quite a bit more detail, including her complete inability to make any sort of movement after they had freed her, while Stitches began his examination. Maker help them… Maker help them all… if Peredura's neck had been broken… just far enough… though not to kill her, but to leave her paralyzed…

His thoughts didn't center on the Inquisition, like how would they be able to continue to close rifts, much less defeat Corypheus, if she couldn't even raise her hand. No, his thoughts were more focused on her, on them, if she could never again lift her hand to stroke the stubble on his cheek.

If she could never again feel his reaction, how she had brought him to life, whenever she was near him.

Maker help him, it was selfish, and he knew it, but at that moment, all he wanted was for Stitches to say…

"Stop moving around so much, young lady, I'm not finished yet."

Cullen blinked, not daring to trust his ears, but he did manage to finally relax his grip on the door handle behind him. Without that anchor, without that self-imposed restraint, his body began to drift forward of its own accord, and he took his first step towards the bed.

"You mean, she can move? Her neck's not broken?" Dorian voiced the question that was pounding inside Cullen's heart.

"Oh, it's quite possible there is a break," Stitches pulled his hands away from the back of her neck, "Or more specifically a hairline fracture, in the bones right at the top of her spine, but it wouldn't have been severe enough to cause any lasting damage, not if she's able to move her hand like that."

All three looked to where Peredura was fidgeting, her right hand trying to get at the knots tied to the splints preventing her arms from moving. Her expression changed, growing pained, agitated, eager and frustrated, as she tried to communicate something she felt was of utmost importance.

"I said, stop moving," Stitches reached across and settled his hand over hers. His back and shoulder effectively blocked her face from Cullen's view, but in his mind he replayed the chewing on her lip, the wrinkling of her brows, the trembling of her chin.

"She's… but she… back there… she couldn't move… not her hands… she tried… I tried… back in the desert… Kaffas, we thought she was paralyzed!"

There was a wheezing sound, something akin to the wind as it blew through ancient and tumbled-down ruins. Cullen discovered he could see her face once more, and found himself standing beside Dorian at the foot of the bed. He didn't bother to figure out how he'd gotten there; he simply stood and stared at Peredura as she tried to speak, and he tried to figure out what she was saying. Stitches was closest, however, and he leaned over her, tilting his head to put his ear right above those quivering lips.

After a moment, he nodded, "Ah, I think I understand." Stitches leaned back and put a finger against her lips to silence her attempts at speaking. "Pins and needles, am I right?"

She blinked at him, twice.

"What?"

Stitches turned back to answer Cullen's question, and missed the expression that flickered across her face at the sound of his voice—though Dorian caught it. "That's what she's saying, er, at least, that's what she is trying to say. Pins and needles, you know, that painful tingling sensation you get when your hand or foot or something falls asleep? That's probably what she was feeling in her hands right after you cut away the ropes, numbness and tingling, probably didn't want to try moving her fingers lest the pain should start." He turned back to her once more. "Isn't that right, miss?"

Again, two very slow blinks.

"That means yes, two blinks yes, one blink no," Dorian translated, his own voice husky with emotions and relief. "Vishante kaffas, I… I'm sorry… so sorry, Peredura… I thought… we all thought… if we had known… realized… we'd never have tied you up again… not after what you'd been through…"

"Actually," Stitches had moved on with his examination, now that his patient appeared less agitated, "It's a very good thing you did keep her so still. If you hadn't braced her neck, well, jostling around in the back of that cart, or riding the back of a horse—anything jarring—might've finished what the noose had started. As it is, though," he smiled down at his patient, "Your neck's going to be fine. Front and back."

"Front…?" Dorian, again, asked, his voice escalating up and octave, sounding lost and confused.

"Larynx is crushed. That's probably what's been causing her the most pain, and keeping her from speaking. But not to worry, one healing potion and she'll be fine by morning. Easily fixed."

"Easily…"

"Ah, Commander, could you…?" Stitches spared a nod and a meaningful look towards Dorian, before turning back to Peredura. Cullen glanced over and saw the mage was as white as a sheet beneath his swarthy tan. The bags under his eyes made his cheeks look even more sunken. And the faintest tremble was running through his body, growing stronger by the moment, soon to bring him to his knees.

Leaving the room was the furthest thing from his mind right then, but he knew the mage was on the verge of passing out. Besides, he wasn't sure—no matter how good of friends the two were—he wasn't sure how Dorian would react if he should catch a glimpse of her ears, much less her scars. She had once been at Dorian's family's estate, after all, with her master to perform some sort of blood magic, and if Dorian had gotten as good a look at her as she had of him… if he remembered her as an elf… if he recognized the design of her scars as blood magic… "Right. Come along, Altus Pavus, we should leave. You've done your part, let Stitches do his."

"I… no, I… it wasn't…" Whatever he wanted to say remained a mystery. His silver-blue eyes rolled backwards as his knees lost the battle to keep him upright. Cullen was right there however and, without a thought or any hesitation, caught him before he could hit the ground, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other scooping up those unfaithful knees.

Cullen straightened back up and found himself at a loss as to what to do next. "I, ah," he started, stopped, looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to the bed. "I'll just, I mean, I should, erm," he tried again, only slightly more articulate than before.

"I can manage, Commander, thank you. Let me do the moving, your Worship, this one looks broken," Stitches barely spared him those first few words, focused on Peredura and carefully untying the splint around her left wrist. The girl herself was still once more, no longer trying to speak or move or gain their attention. Cullen looked up at her face and thought her eyes were either closed, or she was staring at him. From her position, flat on her back and unable to lift her head, it would be very difficult for her to see him standing there at the foot of the bed. But if she was looking at him…

"I'll be back in a little while."

Stitches might have hummed something, thinking the words were meant for him, but Cullen was watching Peredura. He saw her lips move, a little smile breaking through the worry and pain and fear. The fingers of her right hand also moved, a gesture much like she was timidly reaching out for him, or perhaps waving acknowledgement of his words. But the next moment her hand went back to resting on the bedclothes, and her lower lip to being mauled by her teeth.

Damn, but he'd have to break her of that habit.

First, however, he needed to get rid of some dead weight. He turned for the door, fumbling a little as he tried to open it without dropping Dorian. He managed it on the third try, though he did nearly brain the mage on the doorframe as he stepped out into the hallway.

"Commander!" the scout from earlier was a little ways down the hallway, lurking, or perhaps simply staying nearby should he be needed again, Cullen was too tired and distracted to care which.

"Is there a room for Altus Pavus to use," he asked quietly, pulling Peredura's door closed with the toe of one boot.

"I'm not dead," Dorian protested, weakly, "Stop talking as if I'm not here." He lifted his head, a bit wobbly, and blinked at the other two.

"Erm, well, ser, there's, I guess it'd be your room…"

"That'll do for now. Lead the way."

"I can walk," Dorian protested a bit stronger, and began writhing weakly in Cullen's arms. "No need to… carry me like a… like a… damned damsel in distress."

"I could have carried you like a sack of potatoes, you know," Cullen answered.

"Allow me to help, ser," the scout offered and stepped up to their side as Cullen carefully set Dorian on his feet. Those traitorous knees threatened to give once more, but with an arm wrapped securely over Cullen's broad shoulders, and the other draped over the scout's, Dorian managed to regain some of his pride.

A very small amount.

"Just through here, ser," the scout nodded towards the door across the hall and a few yards down. They managed to lug Dorian over to it and through the threshold, the mage's feet attempting to take steps but really just barely able to keep from scuffing the polished marble tiles.

"This is… my room…?" Cullen's astonishment was as thick as pea soup. He looked around at the grand furnishings, the frames covered in gild, the upholstery printed with bright floral colors, the fabrics soft and silky. This room was as feminine as the last room had been masculine.

"Well, ser, there was a slight problem," the scout hesitantly began explaining. "You see, this is Orlais," they resumed their course towards the bed, "And with the Game and all," they shuffled around until they could set Dorian down, "Well, we discovered early this morning, there was a hidden alcove in this room. With an Orlesian spy inside. Purely routine, of course, nothing personal." He straightened up, as did Cullen, both of them studying Dorian to make sure he would remain sitting, or at the very least not slide off the bed. "Still, he's been detained, ser, for questioning. But we wanted to make sure this room didn't have any more surprises, before we let her Worship use it, so we were making another thorough search of the chamber. Only she arrived a little ahead of schedule before we could finish. So we gave her your room, ser, and only just finished securing this room. We could move her in here now, I suppose, but…"

"No, no," Cullen dismissed the suggestion, "She's comfortable where she's at. Leave her be, at least for tonight."

"I second that," Dorian sighed, leaning to the side but putting out an arm to catch himself before he could hit the mattress. "Kaffas, but I'm knackered."

Cullen had almost forgotten about Dorian; he needed to get rid of the other man so he could ask the mage a question or two. "Thank you, scout, I can manage from here. See to those other matters we discussed earlier, and then bring the mabari up to the Inquisitor's chambers when he's finished eating. That will be all."

"But, erm, ser, would you want a room for yourself tonight? Surely you're not…" The scout stopped as suddenly as he had started, just realizing what he had been about to say.

Cullen pulled himself to his greatest height and fixed the shaking scout with his best glare. "No, thank you, but I will be standing watch over the Inquisitor tonight, should she need anything."

"Of course, ser, I didn't mean to imply… erm, I mean pry, that is… excuse me."

Cullen's lips almost twitched into a smile, watching the flustered scout beat a hasty and embarrassed retreat. But then Dorian spoke and reminded him of his presence.

"Thank you, Commander."

"For what this time?" he queried, trying to keep his tone civil and mildly curious.

"For bringing Stitches," Dorian stifled a yawn behind the back of his hand. "Excuse me. My only thought… our only thought… was to get Peredura to a healer, to get her neck looked at, so she could heal correctly. It wasn't until we finally got here… that I realized… her scars… e-e-ea-ears… yyyyhhhhhhhnnnnnngggggg!" He tried to fight off another yawn until he could finish his sentence, almost making it. "They'd be a bit hard to explain to an outsider, like that Chantry healer. I knew I couldn't let him examine her, but she did desperately need someone's attention. And then I saw you… and Stitches… thank the Maker you thought to bring him along."

"I'm fairly sure he knows all about her scars," Cullen agreed, "As I am sure he can be trusted, since he's never mentioned them to anyone." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, "Neither have you, until now."

Even though his befuddled mind was swaddled with exhaustion, Dorian could hear the cold and dangerous tone in the Commander's voice. But he was simply too tired to even attempt subterfuge. "Vishante kaffas, Cullen, yes, I remember her—and her former master—from Tevinter. I know her secret, and I've kept it and I'll continue to keep it," he gave up trying to remain upright and flopped down onto the bedclothes, groaning softly as he rolled onto his back, "Just as she's kept mine."

Mutually assured destruction, was the first thought that entered Cullen's mind; you tell my secret, I'll tell yours. Then the meaning behind the words sunk in.

Dorian had a secret?

Cullen hadn't realized he'd spoken that thought out loud, not until Dorian answered him, "It, well, yes, I do, one I suppose I should be ashamed of, or at least one that my father is ashamed of. That's why he called upon Vicici. The man did have a bit of a reputation for doing the impossible, and though no one ever actually used the words 'blood magic'—not in polite company at any rate—we all knew that's where he got his power. At any rate, father… shall we say, invited Vicici over for afternoon tea. That's when I decided it was time I left home."

"And when you first met Peredura," Cullen prompted.

Dorian sighed, realizing the Commander wasn't going to let this one drop, not until he had assured it posed no threat to his Inquisitor, at least. "Yes," he sighed, pushing himself up onto one elbow, trying to keep himself awake, "Though it took me a while until I recognized her, after I joined the Inquisition. The ears, or lack of them, threw me for a bit."

"And when you did?" he pressed, "When you did recognize her?"

Dorian's eyes dropped to the comforter beneath him, embroidered a bright floral pattern. "As I said, Commander," it was formal now, any friendship between them set aside for the moment, the topic far too serious and potentially dangerous, at least from Cullen's point of view, "Peredura and I are friends, and we trust each other. And we both have secrets to keep, secrets that really don't impact the Inquisition in any way, but secrets we want kept, well, secret. I'll keep hers, out of loyalty; I believe I've proven my faithfulness, at least to her. And I trust," he emphasized the single word, "She'll keep mine. It's already made me the greatest pariah of Tevinter; I've no aspirations of adding the rest of Thedas to that."

"Do you mean," Cullen paused a moment, his brows furrowing as he worked it through, "Do you mean, that stuff between you and Iron Bull? That's what you're ashamed about? Your feelings for another man?"

Dorian's jaw dropped.

"Yes, I know, I do tend to get a bit focused on other matters," Cullen groused, "But that doesn't make me naive. I have noticed how you two act around each other. And if even I'VE noticed it," he pressed his hand to his chest, "Then you can rest assured, it's no secret."

Dorian tottered, just for a moment, a fairly mildly melodramatic response, before over-emoting a groan and falling back onto the pillows, his forearm shielding his face. "You've shamed me, Cullen," they were back to being friends again, he was fairly sure, and used the man's given name. "And here I thought we were being so discreet."

"I've seen the two of you in battle," Cullen felt rather smug that he had figured something out, and wanted to boast for once—just a little. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress. "Afterwards—and during, really, but afterwards your first thought is always for his welfare, as his is for yours."

Dorian's forearm lifted just far enough for one pale blue eye to peek at him, mischievously, "Much like you and Peredura?"

Cullen felt the sudden heat flare in his face, too late realizing that he was trapped. But it was true, and if anything, Dorian had proven his trustworthiness and loyalty and, most importantly, his ability to keep a secret. Squaring his shoulders, daring his own face to turn even more red, he admitted, "Yes."

Dorian found himself hard pressed to keep the smile at bay, though inwardly he crowed, _Good for you, Peredura!_ "And have YOU," he pointed a finger at Cullen's chest, "Told HER?" his finger changed its target to the door.

"I, er, no, well, I've only just," he rubbed at the back of his neck, not able to meet Dorian's eyes, "I mean, we just got here, and there hasn't been time, and now she's so hurt, and I really couldn't, not tonight, perhaps tomorrow…"

"Tell her," Dorian stopped his inane prattling with a hand to his shoulder, "Tell her tonight. Right now. March across that hall, fling open the door, and declare your undying love for her!"

He hadn't thought it possible, but his face did turn even hotter. "I… I couldn't… I don't think… now's not a good time."

"Cullen," Dorian's voice grew soft, husky, overflowing with some long-buried, long-lost, though by no way diminished over time, emotion. "Trust me: Any time is a good time, to tell someone you love them."

He sighed, all but physically drooping. Never had a defeat weighed so heavily on his shoulders, but… "You're right."

"Good lad," Dorian gave his shoulder a final pat before relaxing against the pillows once more. "Now, if you don't mind, could we leave off any more conversations until tomorrow? Or the next day, preferably. I feel like I could sleep a full twenty-four hours! And I'm not going to feel a smidgen of guilt about soiling these sheets with my sandy and sweaty clothing…"

Cullen didn't answer right away, his mind reeling through all that had been said in the past few minutes. When he was finally able to look up, it was to see that Dorian was already snoring softly. He gave a weary sigh, wanting to return to Peredura's room, but also wanting to stall for just a little more time, just a little more courage. He decided to make Dorian a bit more comfortable, but after removing his shoes and unfastening a few belts and turning down the bedside lamp, there wasn't anything else for him to do. He pushed himself to his feet and left the mage to his slumber.

And returned to Peredura's room, not at all sure how he would do what he needed to do, but knowing it had to be done.

Peredura hadn't moved, not surprisingly, though now the comforter was pulled up to her neck. Stitches was hovering over her, carefully spooning what Cullen assumed to be a healing potion into her mouth. Neither one appeared to notice him after he entered, and though he could have slipped back out again—Maker's breath, but that thought was tempting!—he made himself approach the bed.

"Just finishing up, Commander," Stitches had noticed him, though apparently Peredura had not, as her eyes fluttered open at the words and began casting about for him. Cullen took a deep breath and started forwards, towards the bed, taking up a position near the side opposite Stitches where she could see him. He watched those soft brown orbs fill with relief and trust and need and more emotions than they could hold, the excess spilling onto her cheeks in the form of tears.

"She's in a bit of pain," Stitches continued; if he had noticed anything odd about their actions, he kept it to himself. "But I've mixed a little something in with the healing potion here to help with that. There you go, my dear, the last drop. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She didn't answer him, obviously. She did, however, look as if she wanted to say something, or do something, or need SOMETHING, her lower lip flushed and swollen from all the chewing and the comforter moving as her right hand sought freedom from the bedclothes.

Cullen answered, in a way. He leaned over and set his hand over hers, touching her though the blanket, but it was enough to calm her agitation.

There was a strange sound at the door, and Stitches sighed as he stood up. "It seems you've got yet another visitor." When neither Cullen nor Peredura acknowledged him, he cleared his throat and proclaimed, "I'll just get that, shall I?" Again, no sign that either had heard him.

Stitches didn't take it personally, but went to the door and opened it for the four-legged beast, before the hound could tunnel his way through the door with his claws. Fear bounded into the room, overjoyed that he had slipped his lead, lost his handler, and found his way to his partner's room—both his partners. His bark, his happy greeting filled with his important accomplishment, was the only thing that could tear her eyes away from Cullen's face.

As if a spell had been broken, Cullen found himself able to breathe once more. Breathing and returning to his surroundings, just in time to stop the hound from leaping onto the bed—and onto his partner. "Right, Fear, listen up," he started, pulling his hand away from hers to address the mabari, "Peredura's going to be alright, but she's still a little sore right now. I'll let you on the bed for a few moments, only long enough to satisfy your curiosity, but then you'll have to get down, because she needs her rest. And don't jostle the bed. She has to remain very still, understood?" he waggled a finger at the oversized puppy.

Fear sat at attention, quivering from the tips of his folded ears to the tip of his stubby tail, but he would not move until Cullen gave him permission. When those three beautiful words came, "Up you go," he sprang onto the mattress in one leap, one very careful and gentle leap. Hardly a tremor stirred the bed as he made his way timidly to Peredura's side. He sniffed the air, smelling the high desert and the old tree and the blood mages and the ropes and the fear and the wounds. But when he nuzzled her cheek, when he snuffled at her ear, when her hand finally won freedom from the comforter and clung to the scruff of his neck, he knew everything would be alright.

"So, how is she?" Cullen asked softly, leaving the two on the bed and walking the Charger to the door.

"A little worse for wear," he admitted, "Broken wrist. Dislocated ankle. Shoulders were nearly dislocated, too. The neck's the most aggravating, with the slight break and the throat being crushed. But she should be fine by morning. I told her, though, not to try talking until lunchtime tomorrow; she'll probably be alright first thing in the morning, but I want to check on her first."

"I understand," he nodded, "I'll keep her quiet."

If Stitches had a response for that, he kept it to himself. "I also slipped a little something into the potion to help keep her calm. Nothing strong," he quickly assured Cullen, both men remembering the fiasco with the sleeping draught during her withdrawal from opeigh, "Just enough to help take the edge off any anxieties she may be suffering. She has been through quite an ordeal."

"I see," the muscles in Cullen's jaw flexed and bulged as a new thought came to him. He didn't know why he hadn't considered it before, other than he truly didn't want to give the thought voice, but he had to ask, he needed to know… "Had they… did you see any sign that the Venatori… did they… touch her…?"

Stitches knew what he was trying to say, "Not that I could tell, Commander." It wasn't much comfort, but it was all he could give, and it was honest.

Cullen understood, not quite relieved but appearing less homicidal nonetheless. "Thank you, Stitches. I'll stay with her through the night. Any special instructions?"

"No," the healer hefted the strap of his bag onto his shoulder, "Other than the obvious, keep her still and quiet. Good night's sleep should see to that. And I'll be back in the morning to check on her, before breakfast. 'Night, Commander."

Cullen acknowledged him, though vaguely. His eyes were glued to the bed where a girl, a young woman, was clinging desperately to her hound. He did hold himself back until he heard the door closed. Then he moved forwards to reclaim his place at her side. "You should get down now, Fear," he heard himself saying. "Let her get her rest. You can sleep on the rug in front of the hearth." It was as if he was being controlled by someone or something else, doing and saying what he ought to, what was required of him, while his mind whirled and spun in circles, trying to find the words, find the way, to tell her…

Fear didn't move right away, giving in to a small whine while he looked at this partner. When Peredura's hand gently patted his shoulder, a clear signal for him to follow Cullen's command, he gave in. Reluctantly. With a last nuzzle at her ear, one that elicited an indulgent smile and what might have been a bit of an airy giggle, he stood up and jumped down from the bed, bumping against Cullen as he did so and nearly sending the man off balance. Cullen steadied himself with a hand braced against the headboard and glared after the puppy, who very determinedly ignored him in favor of that promised rug by the warm hearth.

Realizing he wasn't going to win against the puppy, Cullen dismissed him and turned his attention back to Peredura. She was looking at him, staring at him with a strange mixture of emotions in her eyes. He could tell her now, he supposed, just blurt the words out, trusting Dorian's advise that any time would be a good time so why not right now? He took a deep breath, then another, telling himself on the third one he'd do it.

Peredura's hand moved. It was outside of the covers, as it had been scratching Fear, but now it moved as if to go back underneath where it was warm. "Oh, ah, here," Cullen jumped at the chance to say something, anything, as he obviously wasn't able to say what he needed to say, "Let me help with that." He started fumbling with the comforter, tugging it away so she could slip her arm back in. But she didn't do that, instead her hand finding his, holding on to the comforter with him, holding it several inches above the bed, open and inviting.

As Cullen told Dorian, he wasn't naive, he wasn't ignorant, he was simply more often than not focused on other matters so he rarely, if ever, caught these subtle signs. But he was focused on her tonight, on her and her needs and…

He saw the delicate flush of blood to her skin, the quickening of her pulse at her neck, the shortness of her breath hefting her chest.

He was also fairly sure she wasn't wearing much, if anything, in the way of clothing.

He stared at the blanket, at the soft darkness within, at the blatant invitation. He stared as a man would stare at a deadly poisonous snake about to strike, or at his deepest and most desperate desire come to life before his very eyes—or a little of both. Yet he wouldn't allow himself to move, he couldn't, not until he was sure he would do the right thing.

"I dare not," he at long last declined, his reluctance making his voice thick and guttural. "I couldn't trust myself, not tonight, you need to keep still, and I…" He stopped himself, clearing his throat, keeping those particular words unspoken, instead tucking the comforter in at her side while leaving her arm above, "However, if you promise to lie quiet and get some sleep," he began taking off his gloves before working on the buckles to his armor, "I will stay here, on top of the covers, right next to you, through the night. Would that be alright?"

She blinked at him, two very slow and deliberate blinks. He gave her a smile and patted her hand before leaving the bed, though he could feel her eyes on him every moment they were apart, straining at the corners and never leaving his form as he stripped himself of his armor. He made quick work of it, efficient, propping the pieces on top of or against a chair near the hearth, draping it all with his mantle. His boots, too, were kicked off and plopped down next to the chair. He shrugged out of his jacket next and, after the briefest of hesitations, decided to keep his tunic and leggings on. Then he turned and came back to the bed.

Wordlessly, with the utmost care and concern, he settled himself onto the mattress, barely shifting it with his weight. He stretched out against her right side, propping his head up on one hand while the other took her free hand. He could feel his heart pounding, hammering against his ribs as if it would burst out of his chest, and wondered if she could hear it, too. "Pere, I have to tell you something."

Right, that was a good start—well, it was a start—but he needed to say more. Her doe-like eyes were open and wide and a little bit glassy; no doubt she was exhausted. She need to rest. She needed to heal.

She also needed to hear him say it.

"Cassandra wanted me to tell you, she doesn't blame you for what happened in the Fade, for what happened to the Divine."

Maker's breath! Why in the Fade had he said that!? It was the wrong thing to say, of course it was, he knew that it was, even more so when she rolled her eyes and looked away from him.

"I… I… I know, it's not something you want to hear, probably not right now, certainly not right now," he sputtered, wondering if he could somehow get things back on track. He squeezed her hand, and felt her grip tighten in response. "But she was insistent that I deliver the message. I promised her I would. And you know me, I'm a man of my word. If I say I'll do something, I will do it. No matter how impossible."

She smiled a little at that, and he grew a little emboldened at that. "Well, now that that's out of the way, we can talk about something else. That is, not really talk, I mean, I can talk, but you'll have to listen, because you can't talk, not yet at any rate. Maybe I should stop talking…"

She smiled, a petit gesture, but honest and open and…

When he looked into her eyes, those eyes, so full of something she wanted to say or do but in her current predicament she was helpless, helpless and silent and crippled and at the mercy of the situation.

At his mercy.

Hawke had told him to tell her that night back at Adamant Fortress, before she left for the Hissing Wastes.

Dorian confirmed that any time would be a good time to tell her. He focused on her face to help himself focus his thoughts.

Her eyes were so full of… whatever it was… that it was causing her distress, actual physical distress; her inability to do whatever it was she wanted to do making her frustrated and anxious and tearful. He couldn't let her be like that, he couldn't let her suffer. He set aside his own anxieties and fears and did his best to ease hers. "I know," he whispered, leaning over her to press a kiss to first one eyelid, then the other, encouraging them to close. They opened—though slowly—as he continued, "I know, whatever it is, whatever you want to say or do but can't, it's eating you up inside. Don't let it." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she gave a slow blink in response. "I'm here, Pere. I'm here and Fear's here and we're not going anywhere." He tapped her lips with a kiss, somehow chaste and carnal at the same time. "It's over. Finished. You're safe and secure, and you'll be whole again by morning." Another kiss, and her eyes were even slower to open this time. "Whatever it is, it can wait until then, can't it?"

She blinked at him, once, which he thought should mean something in the negative. "It can," he affirmed, pressing his forehead to hers. "I know it can," he gave the tip of her nose a peck. "Because, Pere," he brought her hand up to his chest, up against his throbbing heart, willing her to feel it and understand. "Because I'm here, and we'll face it together. Whatever it is. You and I, because…" He closed his eyes, naming himself coward, but he simply hadn't the courage. Here he was, a man who had lived through a Blight, through the falling of not one but two Circles, who had battled darkspawn and demons and dragons. Who had survived withdrawal from lyrium, for Andraste's sake! And he was going to be defeated by three little words. Panting, feeling his pulse race, feeling his bowels turn to jelly, he gripped her hand even tighter and shut off his brain—apparently it was making things too difficult—and let his heart speak, "…I love you."

He waited, but there was no response. No breath of a scoff from her voiceless lips. No affirming squeeze from her hand in his. No response at all, actually. He opened his eyes and leaned back a bit, just far enough to see her face. "Peredura?"

Her features were relaxed, her eyes closed with slumber. For a moment he felt lost, even concerned… but then he remembered Stitches had slipped something into her potion; whatever it was must have relaxed her enough that she had at long last dozed off.

Cullen wasn't sure if he felt relief, or cheated. "Did you hear?" he wondered aloud, "Or were you already asleep? Or will you even remember any of this come morning?" He let out a very vocal sigh, but it didn't change matters. Peredura had slept through his proclamation of love.

"Still, I've said it once. And it wasn't that hard, surprisingly," he decidedly ignored all the anxiety leading up to the moment; the actual words hadn't been that hard to say. "I'll say it again. In the morning. When you're able to hear me."

He settled her hand over her chest in peaceful repose, and began the night's vigilance.


	28. Gotta Love a Sturdy Desk

The room was quiet, dark, the embers glowing peacefully in the hearth, the lamps turned down, the warmth from his body still staining the bedclothes. Cullen was no longer on the bed, however, standing instead near one of the chairs in front of the hearth. He was just finishing getting dressed, shrugging into his coat as he thumped his heels into his boots. The sound was louder than he intended, and guiltily he stole a quick glance towards the bed, afraid of the slightest sound awakening the sole occupant. Peredura remained asleep, thankfully, her breathing steady and calm, her eyes closed, her dark lashes resting long and curled upon her cheeks.

Andraste's wedding knickers, but how he loved her. How beautiful. How strong. How caring and empathetic. How loyal and enduring. How endearing.

He wanted to kiss her.

He made himself turn away and face the balcony doors. He hated to leave her, even for a few moments, but it was nearing that time of the morning, the time when—for the past ten years of his life—he would have risen before the dawn to prepare his daily dosage of lyrium. The habit was deeply ingrained, so deep that it sometimes seemed even more overwhelming than the physical need for the elixir itself. He had to use every trick he could think of to break the habit and distract himself from the NEED.

Hence, his vacating the bed and his retreat to the balcony.

He told himself it would be for only a moment, a single moment, a brief sojourn out onto the balcony—to stand for a breath or two, to feel the passage of the air against his skin, to affirm the nightmares were not real and the demons were not solid. He could feel them close at hand, those demons, lingering in a dark corner of his mind, seeking for a weakness they could use to their advantage to escape the prison he kept them behind…

..and all too vividly the memory of the pair of desire demons flared to life, their shapes taking youthful and maidenly forms, their voices husky and wanton, their hands pleading and reaching for him, and he knew how easily he could defeat their taunts and temptations if he only had a little bit of lyrium…

His shaking hand raked his hair, the fingers tightening, threatening to rip it out by the roots! He screwed his eyes shut, his lips lifting into a feral snarl, as he voicelessly prayed, Maker's breath, would there be no end to this torment?! A single pant, soft though heavy, fell from his parted lips.

There was a sound akin to distant thunder, more felt than heard, and he opened his eyes to see Fear. The Mabari puppy had grown over the past several months, leaving behind the chubbiness of a newborn for the lanky limbs of an adolescent, but he was still a puppy. Even so, despite his youthfulness and inexperience, despite the fact that Fear hadn't moved from his curled-up position on the rug in front of the hearth—he looked at Cullen with one opened eye, the deep brown orb seeing past all the sweats and the shaking and the shortness of breath directly into Cullen's soul…

Cullen couldn't turn away, staring back, all but drawn in return into the hound's soul, the two of them sharing, communicating on this deeper level, Mabari to Man.

The growl sounded again, not as a preamble to danger, but full of concern and care. Cullen swallowed, and swallowed again, before his fingers began to loosen. He took a breath, deep enough to infuse his blood with oxygen and begin to clear his head. A second breath, and he began feeling more in control of himself than he had a moment ago. He busied his hands, still shaking, with finishing the clasps of his coat and straightening his appearance. His fingers combed through his locks, noticing that the curls were coming free of the hair tonic he used to keep them flat. Maker's breath, he was going to need to find his pack before Peredura awoke and started receiving visitors.

But after he got some fresh air.

Before heading to the balcony, though, he knew he had to acknowledge someone's assistance, first. He remembered Peredura had once told him of Fear's uncanny ability to ascertain whether or not he was in his right mind. He wasn't sure if he believed her at the time, but he believed her now, seeing as how Fear's timely warning kept him from plummeting over the edge. He looked back at the Mabari and inclined his head. "I'm alright now, Fear, thank you."

The hound didn't seem to take his word for it, lifting his muzzle to sniff at him and judge for himself. Yet, apparently, he agreed with Cullen's self-diagnosis, as he curled back up even tighter than before and returned to his dozing slumber.

"Thank you for your vote of confidence," Cullen hummed dryly.

Fear's nose twitched, but other than that he gave no sign that he was still listening.

Cullen left him sleeping, the need to feel fresh and unrestrained air still nagging at his thoughts, like an itch between his shoulders that he couldn't quite reach, or an irritating tickle that wouldn't dislodge from the back of his throat, or…

His hand was shaking again as he reached for the latch, but so close to his goal he didn't think he would need Fear's intervention. He could make it in time, the door clicking as the latch disengaged, the hinges giving a slight groan, the wood creaking as it pivoted and the stresses pulled at different parts of the door.

Then he was there, the iron railing firm and cold beneath his grip, the air clean and brisk as it finished ruffling his hair free, as it fanned and chilled his cheeks, as it dried and assuaged the sweat at his temples. He inhaled, deeply, filling his lungs near to bursting with the nippy wind, and held it for as long as he dared, his eyes closed in blissful self-indulgence.

Something alerted him. Something broke into his private commune with nature. Something told him that Peredura was awake.

"Maker's breath," he swore again for the umpteenth time that morning, "I only just stepped out here… for a moment… taken one breath… how could you…" He lifted his eyes heavenward, but if there was an answer there to find, he didn't see it. He knocked his fist, gently, against the railing before turning back to the room. "Oh, never mind, I'm coming."

Reluctantly he closed the door and returned to the bed. As he came around from behind the headboard, his stubbled face full of concern and his eyes only for her, he noticed she was fully awake. He braced one hand against the headboard as he sat down next to her, leaning over her, his other hand stroking her scarred cheek.

"Pere? What is it? Are you alright? Do you need anything? Oh, ah, not that you can answer me, not yet at any rate, but you know, if it's something I can guess or…"

He slowed to a stop when her hand took his. He could tell by the look on her face that she was suffering, experiencing some dark torment—how often had that look stained his own features? But whatever it was would have to remain a mystery for now. He could only grip her hand in return and breathe, "Pere?"

He watched in fascination as she swallowed and prepared herself for her attempt at communication. Her hand left his, lifting up to his cheek, feeling the muscles clench and twitch. She took several deep breaths, holding his gaze, locking their eyes together, before she very clearly and very elaborately mouthed three words.

'Open. The. Door.'

Cullen stared at her lips as they moved, the overly large vowels and puckered consonants, forming very well without breath or voice. He could feign ignorance, pretend a lack of understanding, but that would be a lie, and he could never lie to her. He knew what she was trying to say, but he couldn't allow himself to do it. "No, Pere, I dare not."

Her hand moved, from his cheek to his temples, cupping his ear, her thumb and fingers breaking through his sweat-dried locks. She knew the signs, of course she did, probably better than he knew them. He gave a single shudder for the effort it cost him to keep the demons at bay, and dropped his gaze, "I know, I need the air, but you do not." His hand covered hers, wanting to keep her there, needing to keep her there, "The temperature's dropping outside. The wind's picking up. There'll be a storm before sunrise, if there even is a sunrise, the sky is so black with clouds." He risked it, looking back up at her face, his eyes flickering back and forth between her own surrounded by dark circles. Her cheeks were sunken, her skin sallow and pale, her arm already beginning to tremble with fatigue, "You've been through so much, so weak and frail, you'd catch your death of cold if I left the balcony doors open. I couldn't allow that to happen, no matter what discomfort it may cause me."

She didn't let go, either of his head or his gaze, despite her indisposition. Instead her expression grew stern and motherly, her lips parting to mouth again a single word.

'Open.'

He wanted to defy her, but she had made up her mind, he could see it in her eyes, feel it in the grip of her fingers. But he couldn't allow her a complete victory over him. "Is that an order?"

Naturally he would respond best if she made it a command. She blinked, twice, very obvious and deliberate. Yes.

"Then I shall, of course, obey." Caught up by an impulse, he turned his face just far enough to brush his lips against the palm of her hand, never taking his eyes from hers. "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

He was rewarded, watching the blood flush her cheeks, burning them bright red right before his eyes. Her eyes flashed, her lips pursed, but she remained silent, knowing she could not yet talk back at him and scold him and probably a hundred other things she wanted to say to him. Savoring his victory, however short-lived it may turn out to be, he pulled away from her. "I'll open the balcony door, but only a crack, and only for a little while. If you show any sign of feeling a chill, I'll close the door again, understood?"

She may have won the skirmish, but there would still be a war. Fine. Whatever. At least he would have some fresh air. She blinked twice, making the simple expression ooze with surliness. He smiled in return, with only the slightest hint of a smirk, and kissed her hand again, this time the backs of her fingers, as he vowed, "I'll be right back."

An exasperated breath burst from her chest. Oh, but he was infuriating! When she was allowed to, she was going to give him such a tongue-lashing, that he would feel like one of his own fresh recruits that he liked to dress-down so often during training exercises. And it would serve him right!

She was so caught up in her plans of revenge, that she didn't hear the breathy chuckle burst from his chest, or notice the lightness of his footfalls as he retraced his earlier steps, or see how boyishly his eyes twinkled. Gone were the demons of the night, banished by the woman he loved, though even Cullen himself didn't notice. He only knew he felt better, propping the balcony door open with a chair on one side and a cushion on the other so the wind could neither bang the door completely open nor slam it shut. Then he was returning back to the bed, back to Peredura…

…back to his love.

Oh, Blessed Andraste, how he wanted to tell her, how he had already told her, and maybe she hadn't dozed off before he'd said it… maybe he wouldn't have to repeat the agony and insecurity of that first utterance. That was what made him trip on the toe of his boot just a few feet from her, the thought of having to go through all that torture again, the angst, the build-up of courage, the final plunge as he said those three little words that would forever change their relationship—either for them to remain together in mutual bliss, or indelibly driving them apart in awkward unrequited emotions.

Maybe, if he tried jogging her memory, she might remember him telling her last night, and then she could either feign a lack of knowledge if she did not love him in return yet still wished to remain friends, or… well… the only other option was to repeat himself and see what would happen. He'd try jogging her memory first.

"Peredura," he began, standing next to the bed, looming over her. No, that wasn't the right posture, too formal, too stiff, if he was about to proclaim his undying love for her, or re-proclaim, or something of the sort. He cleared his throat and sat down on the edge of the bed, doing his best not to shake it, and reached across her to take her good right hand in his. He swallowed, made himself stare into her doe-like brown eyes, and tried again, "Pere."

She blinked at him, twice, her hand in his squeezing gently in a reassuring manner. Why she was giving him comfort, he couldn't fathom, but then again, he was acting strangely.

"Pere, do… do you remember… last night… what we talked about… ah-a-a-after Stitches left…?" Damn, his voice was stuttering. He'd never felt so terrified as he did at this moment. How could such a mere slip of a girl unman him so completely?

In a flash he knew, the answer so clear he instantly knew it to be the absolute truth: because she meant so much to him. Because she was so very important to him. Because he loved her. The realization gave him strength, gave him power over this new obstacle, and gave him the courage to soldier on.

"I know you were getting tired, and beginning to doze off, but this was important. Do you remember what we talked about? Or rather," he paused to allow a half-chuckle to slip out, "What I talked about?"

Peredura looked at him, her brow wrinkling just that little bit, her teeth poised to nip her lip, as she tried to figure out what it was he was trying to tell her. She did remember it, she supposed, their rather one sided conversation. But she had been so tired, and she was sure Stitches had slipped something into her healing potion that encouraged her to doze off. Still, in her memories, fuzzy from exhaustion and relieved of the pain and warm after the potions…

She blinked, slowly, very overtly, two times.

"Oh!" He sounded surprised, and she watched in confusion as he nervously shifted on the bed and licked at his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. "You do? That's… ah… unexpected…" As if just realizing what he had said might sound wrong, he stuttered to cover it up, "I mean, good, yes, that's good, that you remember, because it was so important, what I had to tell you…" His words faded away again, his expression sideways, head tilted, brow furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure you remember?"

Nope, she wasn't sure at all, not if he was acting like this. She racked her brain, trying to force the memories to focus. She remembered she had lifted the covers, and he had declined but offered to sleep on top of the blankets, and then he told her…

'Cassandra.'

He blinked at her, not having expected her lips to have moved, and tried to figure out belatedly what she had mouthed. "I beg your pardon?"

Now it was her turn to feel confusion. Hadn't he told her about Cassandra, how she didn't hold Peredura responsible for what had happened to the Divine? After Peredura's memories had been returned during their sojourn in the Fade—her private and painful memories shared with everyone there!—Cassandra had been distant, preoccupied more than usual, and Peredura had immediately supposed Cassandra was blaming her for the Divine's death. After all, Peredura had deliberately taken that knife and cut her own flesh and shed her blood to bind the Divine for Corypheus' plans. Why wouldn't Cassandra blame her? Yet Cullen told her that Cassandra had purposely asked him to deliver a message, to let Peredura know that despite her own issues with what had happened, she didn't hold Peredura responsible. Isn't that what Cullen was talking about?

'Cassandra.'

"Oh!" Cullen finally read her lips—he was paying attention this second time—and felt relief flooding through him and making his shoulders sag. "Oh. Oh, Maker's breath, no, I mean, yes, I did tell you that, about Cassandra, giving you her message, so yes, that was important. But I, erm, I mentioned something, after that, do you remember?" He watched her face, screwing up slightly as she tried to remember, and he gave her a way out if she needed it, "I know you were exhausted, and already dozing off, so if you didn't hear me that's alright. I was just wondering if you remembered, so I don't end up repeating myself unnecessarily."

He knew her face. He knew every minutiae of every expression of every emotion. She was terrible at concealing her thoughts and feelings, a characteristic so honest and pure that he loved it about her, so he could tell she honestly did not remember his profession of undying love. Well, that left him back at square one, that desperate desire to speak those words, on the verge of scrambling to get out of his skin lest the love is not returned. He swallowed, took a deep breath to square his shoulders, and prepared to plunge into those icy waters of No Return.

"Pere, I…"

"Ah, good, a little fresh air is good for the soul," Stitches' voice drifted in softly from the main bedroom door, "Though we won't want to leave the door open for too long. It is getting cooler outside, wouldn't due to have her Worship catch a chill. Excuse me," he started tiptoeing up to the bed, "Don't mean to wake anyone up, just wanted to see how she was doing this morning."

Cullen wasn't sure if he felt grateful for the reprieve, or angry over the delay. His nostrils flared over his irritation as he answered, "We're awake, ah, that is, she's awake, I mean, we're just having a little chat, that's all."

She could hear the disgruntled tone in his voice, every nuance of his character was so plainly clear to her, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what was going on. Was there more to last night, something else, something he had mentioned after he delivered Cassandra's message? She honestly could not remember…

"Having a chat, are we? Did you forget your promise not to try talking until later today?" the Chargers' healer directed his questions at his patient.

She looked back at Stitches, tried to shake her head but encountered the damn braces. Feeling a bit frustrated herself over her own inability to communicate something important, she blinked her eyes, once.

If Stitches caught on to the atmosphere in the room, to the charged energy, as if lightning was about to strike—twice!—he gave no sign. "Good, good," he hummed, setting down his pack and sitting on the side opposite Cullen. "You're probably all healed anyway, but I just want to make sure before you try talking. Could do yourself some real damage if you use your vocal chords before they're ready. Now, let me see, here, how things are shaping up. We'll start with your neck, shall we?" His expert fingers slipped around the straps and ties and probed gently along her spine.

Cullen felt like he was being pushed aside, Stitches leaning over her as he had been doing, forcing him to back out of the way, but he tried not to take it personally. After all, Stitches wasn't the one who had feelings for her. Or was he? The sudden thought of a rival made Cullen's mind take a dark turn as he considered the facts. Stitches had been ready to go with, at a moment's notice, on just the rumor that Peredura was in trouble and would need the services of a healer, a healer who knew about her unusual circumstances, a healer they could trust, like Stitches…

Something bumped his leg, hard, before settling heavily against his thigh, sending his dark musings skittering away from his thoughts and back into the shadows. Cullen looked down and to the side to see Fear leaning against him, the Mabari's deep brown eyes overhung with concerned and pitiable brows. When he acted as if he was about to ignore the hound's request, Fear gave a little whimper and padded a few steps away before returning to pressing against Cullen's leg.

"I think the hound needs letting out," Stitches, damn him, commented dryly. "Go on, Commander, take care of him. We'll be finished by the time you get back."

Not if I can help it, Cullen thought rebelliously to himself, feeling again that stab of jealousy pinch his heart. Yet he stood, bowed formally to the bed, "Madam Inquisitor," and spun smartly on his heel for the door. We'll just see how long you're left alone with her, he muttered so far under his breath not even Fear could hear it.

Outside in the hall the atmosphere changed, the hallway looming dark and long and seemingly without end, the air stale and clinging and growing thicker in his chest with each heartbeat. He walked to the opposite wall and braced his hand against it, willing the torment away…

"Ser?" Devensport's voice called again, barely managing to break through the invisible wool muffling his ears, "…the Inquisitor… what… we do…"

Damn it, he cursed himself as the morning took another turn back for the worse. He was beginning to feel like a battering ram, swinging back and forth on its hinges, from the shakes of withdrawal to the bliss of being in love. But he had to get ahold of himself; this was not the time to have an 'episode!' He took a deep breath, forcing himself to admit that the air was breathable and he was not about to suffocate, and lifted his head. "What?!"

Well, that came out a bit more gruff than intended, but he was fairly sure Devensport and Abbets knew why he was occasionally extra surly—everyone in Skyhold had to know by now that he was no longer taking lyrium, and the former templars would understand with even more empathy what that would mean for him. In fact, Abbets looked a bit shaky himself, possibly a bit too empathetic towards his Commander, but Cullen decided not to address that this morning.

"Ser, the Inquisitor, well," Devensport cleared his throat, but with the way the Commander had staggered from the room, how he clung to the wall and didn't seem to be able to hear them. "Is she alright? You seem upset, and we were just worried, if there might be something wrong. I mean, we did come here because she was in danger or hurt or something, didn't we, ser?"

"Yes, yes," he waved their concern aside, allowing himself one heartbeat, and only one heartbeat longer, to lean against the wall before he squared his shoulders and faced them fully, relying only on his own two feet to keep his balance. "Yes, she's alright, now. Stitches is in with her, of course, but that's just a formality; there shouldn't be any complications."

Devensport looked relieved, but Abbets remained his taciturn self. "Very good, Ser. Anything we can do, just let us know."

"Actually, yes, there is something you can do." Cullen gestured to the hound, "Fear needs some attention, the usual, a bit of exercise and a bit of food. Then return him here."

"I'd see to it personally, Ser, only, well, it's just that…" he glanced at Abbets who remained standing at attention on the other side of the door, staring straight ahead at nothing. "Maybe I should call someone to…"

"Take Fear yourself, Devensport, he knows you and will listen to you, whereas he might disobey or pretend to ignore a servant or other stranger."

If Fear knew Cullen was talking about his minor transgressions, such as the occasional squirrel chase or the odd back scratching against some smelly plant, he pretended innocence.

"And don't worry about the Inquisitor's safety. We're secure in this estate, surrounded by Leliana's scouts, a score of former templars, not to mention Abbets here will remain at his post, and I'll be with the Inquisitor every moment that Fear's away. She's safe."

Devensport cleared his throat, "Ah, yes, Ser, I didn't meant, well, no, Ser, of course she's safe, I just, well, I'll take Fear now. Come on, boy, let's get you outside before the rain starts."

Fear gave a brief bark, not too loud, but happy and agreeable and started off down the hallway, leaving Devensport to have to catch up with him.

"He is a handful, that hound," Cullen muttered to himself. Then he turned back to the other guard. "Abbets, you do look a bit tired. Have you been on duty all night?"

Abbets nodded.

If Cullen was disturbed by the lack of vocalization, he didn't show it. "When does your shift end?"

"An hour, Ser."

Abbets' voice shook, sounding dry and harsh, as if the man was suffering a cold. Cullen noted it, but he knew better than to point it out to Abbets; no one ever spoke of the suffering of templars, especially when it was simply a case of the sniffles. "Devensport should be back before them. Very well, carry on, Abbets."

"Ser!"

With the hound's needs being seen to, and Peredura's Honor Guard reassured of her continued good health—they'd spread the news that she was well and on the mend—Cullen returned to the bedchamber.

As expected, Stitches was still there, conducting his thorough examination, messing with the comforter that barely protected her nude form.

Damn him.

"Ah, Commander, good, I'm glad you're back. Could you close the balcony door now? I'd like to take a close look at her ankle, but the room might be a bit chilly for her."

Peredura, still flat on her back and tied to the makeshift braces and not allowed to speak, did a very childish and spiteful sticking-out-of-her-tongue that was so comical, and behind Stitches' back as he was facing Cullen when he spoke, that it nearly made Cullen laugh. Instead he coughed, hiding politely behind his hand as the jealously fled from his heart—she had done that for his eyes only—and bowed. "Agreed. Besides, that storm looks like it's about to break."

As he made for the door, the wind already rattling it against the chair, he wondered at Peredura's fathomless insight. How could she? How could she know what he was feeling? How could she sense his jealously and needs? And how could she do the exact right thing to set aside his fears? He shook his head, resigned to the fact that he would probably never truly, completely, indubitably understand the slip of a woman who held the fate of Thedas in her hand—literally! He secured the latch, not a single thought of regret over the loss of moving air, and started back for the bed.

"Thank you, Commander. Now I can finally take a look at that ankle."

Cullen abruptly stopped, suddenly realizing what he was about to do. He was still behind the headboard, still unable to see her lying on the bed, though he could see the thick comforter was pulled down to the foot of the bed. If he leaned forward just a bit, he might be able to see the toes of one foot. If he continued his original course, however, he'd be able to see everything…

"Could you bring that lamp a bit closer? Thank you."

Stitches asked for and acknowledged Cullen's assistance as if it were a foregone conclusion, focusing on his patient, assuming there would be no discussion. Almost in a trance, falling back into the habit of following orders—life was so much safer and easier when he all he had to do was follow orders, not give them—Cullen picked up the indicated lamp and the small table it had been sitting on, and brought them around to the foot of the bed.

She was clothed! Thank the Maker! Not that he stared or even sneaked a peek, but as he walked around the headboard, he could see she was wearing leggings and a tunic, or what was left of them. Someone, undoubtedly Stitches last night, had cut away quite a bit of the material, exposing every wound and hurt on her body, but leaving everything else in place. So her shoulders had been bared, as they had been nearly dislocated and Stitches would have had to examine them, but her, erm, torso remained concealed from sight. Cullen amazed himself, his hands were so steady when he set down the table and lamp. He even allowed himself to look at her ankle, at the dressing stained with blood and puss, and yet the skin beneath was healed and whole once more.

"Excellent. I'm very pleased with that. Wiggle your toes for me. Good. Now bend your ankle. Yes, yes. Any pain? No? Then we'll leave the wrappings off. Could you assist me again, Commander? I think she'd like to sit up for a time."

"Um, her neck…?" he hesitated before walking around to her other side, unsure if what the healer suggested was a wise course of action. He could see that her ankle was healed, and it looked like Stitches had already taken the braces off of her wrist, but her neck was still wrapped and leaving him to wonder. For that matter, what was left of her clothing had been held in place by the straps and bindings that Stitches was now removing. If she sat up, then gravity would take over and everything would fall open.

"What? Oh, her neck should be fine, the bones are, at any rate. But I'd like for her to sit up, before I take the last of the dressings off and examine her throat. Oh, er, one more thing," Stitches paused, at long last making a bit of an effort to feel embarrassed for his patient. "Is her pack anywhere around? She'd probably like a fresh tunic, because, well, you know," his fingers gestured vaguely at her chest.

Peredura was doing her best, but she was so frustrated, and so embarrassed already, any pride having gone out the window before Cullen had closed it, and now the two men were talking about her as if she couldn't hear them, as if she wasn't truly there, but a doll to play dress-up, and…

"No, ah, her pack, I think, was brought to her chambers."

"Her chambers?" Stitches asked, confused. "You mean…"

"This was to be my room, yes," Cullen finished quickly, if only to get it over with. "Long story. Doesn't matter now. But my pack is just over there. I think I have a spare tunic she could borrow. Hold on."

It was a short reprieve, the errand to fetch the item of clothing, but it was enough to get his own awkwardness under control. Damn, even though he was sure he had nothing to worry about, he would feel a lot better when this was over and Stitches was out of the room and he and Peredura could finally TALK!

When he could finally—again—tell Peredura that he loved her.

He was calm as he handed Stitches the tunic. Peredura demurely crossed her arms over her chest, ducking her head in an attempt to hide the bright red color of her cheeks, as the two men carefully lifted her to a sitting position and dropped the tunic over her head and shoulders. When the fabric pooled around her hips, she let go of her chest and wiggled her arms through the sleeves. There, all nice and neat and, most importantly, all the scars were covered. Cullen helped her scoot back against the headboard, bracing her now with pillows rather than the strips of wood and leather straps she had been in for the past several days, a far more comfortable option in her opinion, and Stitches tucked the comforter securely over her legs.

"There you go. Warm enough, are you?"

Peredura, her head still bowed thanks to the heat she continued to feel burning her face, and the fact that it felt so good to be able to move her head and neck, did take a moment to consider Stitches' question. The air in the room had chilled considerably thanks to the storm outside, but the blanket was thick and still retaining her body heat from the night before. And the tunic, though woolen and a little itchy, was also thick and smelling of dirt roads and musty packs and… Cullen… that strange and mysterious and unique mixture of horses and leather and steel and sweat and just a hint of lilacs. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent, feeling it fill her lungs and infuse her blood to be carried throughout her body.

She nodded.

"Good. Now lift your chin, or I won't be able to take the bandages off."

She hesitated, hating to show how embarrassed she felt, but even more than that she wanted the bandages gone! She lifted her chin, trying not to look at either of them, and hoped this would be over soon. She wanted the wrappings gone, she wanted Stitches gone, she wanted it to be just her and Cullen so she could tell him…

He moved his head, tilting it just far enough to catch her eye, to make her look at him, and his smile warmed her even more, the heat spreading out from her cheeks, down her neck, past her heart, to a place so private and secret even she barely knew about it. Her lips parted, her pulse jumped, and she found it far too difficult to retreat back to that shy sanctuary behind her overgrown bangs.

"Skin's healed," she barely registered Stitches' voice, "For right now, it'll look like you got another scar, but give it some time, six months or so, and it'll fade. Not completely, but far enough to hide in the shadow of your chin. Now for the part we've all been waiting for."

There was a pause, a rather pregnant pause, and as the moment stretched into seconds, and the seconds threatened to grow to a full minute, Peredura at long last yanked her eyes from Cullen's to look at Stitches. The question, the confusion, was plain on her features, and the Chargers' healer smiled gently at her.

"Say something."

Right. Her voice. The ropes had nearly crushed her vocal chords. Everyone feared… but she had healed elsewhere… surely her voice had healed, too…

Cullen and Stitches were both staring at her, staring and waiting and hoping and pressuring and…

"Ah—um—ugh—lee!"

Cullen watched her lips part, heard the hoarse croak that blurted out, and felt her frustration as her teeth sought her lower lip and her eyes filled with tears.

"That's to be expected," Stitches reassured her. "You haven't used your voice for a good week; it's bound to be a little hoarse from disuse. Clear your throat, gently, and try again."

She could barely hear him, the humiliation flooding her thoughts. Andraste's knickers! Of all the things that had to come out of her mouth, the first thing she had said was… she hadn't realized she had been thinking about it.. but it was there… lingering in her mind like a cancer…

Was she ugly?

"Pere?" Cullen's voice prompted.

"I…" she croaked, cleared some phlegm, and tried again. "I don't know."

"What?" Cullen asked, confused.

"Exactly," she admitted, feeling the tears cloud her eyes and the sobs being to strangle her chest. "I don't know what to say. There's so much… for so long… I wanted to… to The Iron Bull… Dorian… you… everyone… and I couldn't… and now I can… but I don't know where to start!"

Cullen hadn't waited for her to finish, he hadn't waited until they were alone. He took her shoulders and pulled her close to his chest, pressing her cheek against him and stroking her long brown hair. "Shh…" he cooed, his chest thrumming soothingly in her ear. "Shh… it's alright now. It's over. You're safe. You've got the time. We'll sort it all out, you and I, work through everything, until you feel better. I promise."

Stitches took the two in and smiled to himself. "She'll be alright now," he whispered behind her back, catching Cullen's eye. "A hot breakfast, a bath, plenty of rest, and she'll be as right as rain, or, erm…" he glanced at the balcony doors being battered by said rain, "You know what I mean. Send for me if you anything comes up, otherwise I'll check in on her tomorrow."

Cullen nodded his thanks, his hands full of a weeping girl. It wasn't until he heard the door close behind Stitches, it wasn't until he was sure they were alone, that he lifted her just far enough away from his chest to settle a light kiss against her lips. Very brief, very chaste, and very mindful of the salty tears covering them. "I'm listening, Pere. What do you want to say?"

She sniffed, wanting to rub her nose on the back of her sleeve, but remembering it was Cullen's thought better of it. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief, one of the special ones his sister embroidered, and handed it gallantly to her. She took it, held it to her nose, and mumbled into the fabric, "I don't know where to start."

"Start where you tried to before," he offered, thinking he was making things easier. "What was it you first tried to say?"

"I… no…" she shook her head and dropped her hands to her lap, holding on to the used handkerchief, "It's too silly."

"It's not, you know," he softly chided her, "If it was the first statement you tried to speak in over a week, then it matters."

"Later," she sniffed, dabbing at her nose again, "Maybe. Where are The Iron Bull and Dorian?"

"Dorian is across the hall, asleep. Bull is, I imagine, halfway back to the Hissing Wastes by now. He only stayed behind long enough to ensure you and Dorian were safe before he returned. I got the impression he's going to catch up with Blackwall and Sera, who are tracking the Venatori who did this to you."

She dabbed her nose again, nodding. "I wish he wouldn't. I knew he would, I know he will, but I'd rather the men faced a just trial and sentencing, not whatever The Iron Bull has planned."

"Well, I could send a raven, try to head him off, the others there might be able to stop him," Cullen offered, but his voice belied his lack of confidence in such a plan.

Peredura shook her head—Maker but it felt good to move again!—and wiped away the tears on her cheek. "I doubt anyone could stop him."

He gave a huff of agreement. "I suppose you're right." Gently his thumb swiped at a tear she missed. He watched in consternation as she dropped her head again, staring at her hands in her lap, pulling back behind the drapery of her hair. He could tell that she was hurting emotionally, no doubt something to do with her near-death experience, and again the vision of those men… if they had touched her… taken advantage of her… Stitches said there had been no sign, but…

"Am I ugh…"

"Did they ra-a-a…"

Yet again, the two of them had spoken at the same time. And again, equally embarrassed and shy smiles met each other's eyes. Cullen gave a little chuckle and offered, "Ah, what was that?"

Peredura shook her head, her brown hair swinging lankly thanks to a dire need for a bath. "Nope. I went first last time, after Adamant. It's your turn."

Damn, but she was right, she had gone first last time. Shoring up his courage, knowing she was only stalling for time, he allowed her this victory and asked—or tried to ask—his question. "Pere, when you… when they… in the Hissing Wastes… after the Venatori captured you, did they… any of them… hurt or… touch…"

She was shaking her head long before he stuttered to a stop. "No, Cullen, I wasn't 'touched'," she answered, sounding a little bit sad, a little bit hurt, a little bit angry.

He didn't notice these things, however, the relief flooding his body far too overwhelming to allow him to register the tells of another person. "Thank the Maker!" he prayed fervently, his strong hands caressing her shoulders as he leaned forward to press their foreheads together. "I don't know… I honestly don't know… what I would have done if they… No, that's not quite true. I suppose I would have caught up with Bull, or passed him by now, and tracked down those men and taken care of them myself!"

He meant to kiss her again, he liked doing that, and she seemed to like it as well, but when he tilted his head to reach her lips, she gave a short sort of sputtering sob, full of spittle and angst, and he found himself instead with a mouth full of handkerchief as she tried to contain the flow. He leaned back, far enough to see her face, but she was hiding once more behind her bangs. "Pere? What is it? What's wrong?" A little knot of fear settled in his guts, hard and oily and making him question and doubt. "Pere, did you lie to me? Just now? To spare my feelings or some such? Did those Venatori touch you?"

She shook her head.

He pursed his lips. "I am finding that harder and harder to believe. Something has you upset, something fairly serious, and the only thing I can think of is…"

"Am I ugly?"

Silence rained like the storm outside. Her question was so abrupt, and so similar to the half-choked sounds she had first tried to make, Cullen instantly realized that these were the words she had been trying to say from the start. But the words were so shocking, so odd to him, of course she wasn't ugly, why would she question such a thing, how could she… "You are the most beautiful woman I know," the words fell from his mouth automatically, honestly, without guile or motive or plan, "That I've ever met, and I've known a lot of women, met them, I mean, there haven't been a lot of women in my life THAT way, but I have met quite a few, and gotten to know them, without KNOWING them…"

He should stop, he should really stop talking, but his inane blubbering was actually working to his advantage for once, as Peredura giggled through her tears. Well, now that he managed to stem the crying, or at least lessen it a little bit, he brushed her bangs to the side behind an ear and asked, "What brought this on?"

Her hand reached up, next to his, and unhooked the bangs from her ears, hiding the nipped points that once were elven. "I… I just… I don't know… it's silly, but… I know I shouldn't feel this way, but…"

She gripped her lower lip between both rows of teeth, as if desperate to hold the words in, fearful of what they would bring out with them. But Cullen was patient. He knew her by now, knew her habits, knew that the harder something was for her to say, the longer it would take for her to say it. But she would. She would tell him. They had shared so much already, they would share this. He merely had to wait for her to finally allow the words to come.

She shuddered, her whole body shaking with the effort, warring to keep the words in and to force them out. "I… I was too ugly to rape."

To his mind, this should have been a good thing, a relief. But then, he didn't have the mind of a woman. Though he wanted to step in, cut off any more words before they could spill her pain, reassure her and fix the trouble she was having, he knew she needed to finish before he did so, she needed to say those words—all of them—that were eating her up from within. With an iron will born of decades of training and battles, he persevered in his silence and endured to the end of her narrative.

"There was a red templar there, he had caught up with me, was holding me down, and the Venatori master, he told his apprentice, to rape me, only he took one look at me, at this," she pulled down the neck of her tunic, revealing a bit of the blood magic scarring along the top of her shoulder, "And he couldn't do it, he couldn't rape me, I tried to be brave, I tried to use it to my advantage, to make them think the scars were all over me, make them believe I was ugly, and it worked, he thought I was scarred all over, and ugly, and he didn't think he could physically keep himself hard enough to finish, not if I looked like this, not if I was so ugly, and one of the others sounded like he was puking!"

Cullen closed his eyes briefly, fully able to imagine the scene, having experiences he could barely acknowledge to himself.

"They couldn't rape me, because I was too ugly. How ugly does a woman have to be, to be too ugly to rape?!" She was gripping his arms now, twisting the fabric of his coat sleeves until it threatened to tear, "It hurt! It hurt so much! I know I should be thankful, relieved, that they hadn't, but I'm not, I'm hurt, insulted, and I'm feeling guilty for feeling hurt when I should be feeling something else but I can't all I can think about is that I'm too ugly…"

Oh, Maker, what a mess! Cullen didn't try to sort out that tangled mass of emotions, to find the one string that could be pulled to unravel the pain and make everything alright. "Pere," he breathed, pulling her once more against his chest, wrapping his muscular arms around her trembling form, willing her to leech off of his strength. "Pere, it's alright, truly, I promise you it's alright, you have nothing to be ashamed for."

She sniffed once before returning to sobbing and her apparent efforts to soak the front of his coat.

"They're feelings. They're neither good nor bad; they simply are. And you cannot help what you feel; they just happen. There's no rhyme or reason, no logic or sense to be made. They are emotions. They are yours. And it is perfectly alright to feel them, to let yourself feel them. In fact," he kissed the top of her head, "I have to admit, I feel relief, I do, as awkward as it sounds, I'm relieved to learn that they found you so ugly," he felt her lift her head a little and his lips moved to brush against her forehead, "I am relieved and grateful that they were such shallow men," her face lifted a little further and he kissed an eyebrow, "Otherwise, if they had raped you, I would have had to leave you to hunt them down and make them pay," he kissed the other eyebrow, "But instead I can sit here and feel relief, relief that I can stay here and hold you and kiss you," he remembered Dorian's words that any time was a good time, and they were talking about their feelings right then, so he could—should—say it now… "Because, Pere, the truth is," she had lifted her chin, staring at him, open and vulnerable and needy, and yes this was the perfect time, "You are beautiful. To me. I don't see your scars, your skin," he brushed her hair back behind her ear again, "I see what lies within. Your fierce loyalty. Your enduring strength. Your fathomless compassion. Your sense of humor. I see your soft brown eyes, the way they peek at me from behind your long bangs, and it makes my heart race. I see you, Pere, who you truly are, and I lo—"

"Good morning," an overly bright and cheerful voice announced from the doorway. "Did somebody order breakfast?"

Cullen wanted to snarl in rage. He also wanted to lock that bloody door! Or brick it over! Or…

"Dorian!"

The joy in her voice, the light in her eyes, the way her tears had dried up, Cullen wondered if it had been his words, or her friend's sudden appearance, that worked the miracle. But, no, she wasn't completely back to normal yet, he realized, as she pulled her hair forward to hide her ears, and ducked behind his form to finish wiping at her eyes and nose.

"I was on my way to the kitchens to grab my own breakfast, when I heard you were awake and hungry," he gestured to the servants following him, carrying silver-domed trays that barely contained the wafting of delicious smells, "And I said to myself, that's far more than Peredura could eat all by herself. And I bet my very good friend would like a little company this morning. So I invited myself to join you in your repast; I'm sure you won't mind."

Peredura smiled, a little forced, but perhaps only Cullen knew her well enough to notice that. She was gripping his hand fiercely, the one on the side away from the servants and Dorian, as she tucked away the handkerchief and answered, "Of course not, please, join us."

Dorian might have finally caught on, hearing the reluctance in her voice that contradicted her invitation, seeing the way she clung to Cullen, see the dark scowl that chilled the Commander's features. "Ah, perhaps I better…"

"Excuse me, Ser," a voice called from the doorway. The servants had left it open while they went about the room, setting up the trays on the table before the hearth, placing three chairs around for Peredura, Cullen, and Dorian to sit. Cullen trained his glare on the door now, to the hapless soldier standing at attention, loathe to enter the chamber and yet compelled to report to his leaders. "Ser, I'm very sorry, your Worship, but I need to speak with the Commander. There've been reports…"

"Yes, yes, I'll attend to them," Cullen sounded as if he didn't want to do anything of the sort. Then Fear chose that moment to return, pummeling past the soldier, nearly knocking him over, and bounding into the room. He reached the side of the bed, standing between it and Dorian, and gave a happy bark of good morning. The next moment he shook, sending chilly rainwater flying from his coat and overwhelming the smells of breakfast with the stench of wet dog.

"Sorry, Commander," Devensport also now stood in the doorway, looking properly chastised, "But he slipped his lead, the little pest," his heated words were cooled by an indulgent chuckle. "Likes to play in the rain, he does, that one. And the mud." Devensport noted the said muddy paws were now on the bedclothes, and he gave a cough of embarrassment. "I'll, erm, see to it that he has a bath…"

Cullen saw how Peredura's face lightened even further at the sight of her hound and gave up a sigh of defeat. "Later, Devensport, the bath can wait. That'll be all for now."

"Ser!"

"We've finished setting up your breakfast, your Worship," the servants bowed.

"Ser, these reports, they seem urgent, from Leliana herself," the soldier in the doorway gestured.

Cullen hated to admit it, but it seemed as if he had lost yet another opportunity. He stood up from the bed and faced the soldier in the doorway, "Take them to my office, just next door," he gestured to the side. When the soldier hesitated, seeing as there was a door that led to the office from inside the chamber, but feeling he shouldn't use that door, Cullen continued, "There's a door just around the corner. I'll meet you there."

"Ser!"

"Thank you," he turned to the servants next, "But I won't be joining the Inquisitor for breakfast. No, no, leave the chair, you can move it back when you come to take the trays away. Dorian," he turned to the Altus next, "I don't know how long I'll be, so I'm entrusting her to your care. See to it she eats a healthy portion, then take her to her chambers to get, erm, freshened up, you know what I mean."

"I'll take good care of her," Dorian promised, "I'll treat her as if she were the little sister I never had."

That was about as much as he could hope for, he supposed. "Yes, well," he turned lastly to Peredura, to the one who was first in his thoughts, and bowed apologetically. "I'll try to get away as soon as I can."

She managed a slight pink tint to her cheeks. "Commander."

He gave her the smirk he knew infuriated her, saw the blush deepen, and turned to march to his office. He swiped a roll off the tray as he passed, fearing this may be his only opportunity to eat until much later. But before he could head though the door to his office, Dorian's voice called out one last time. "Commander, just a quick word, if you don't mind."

He did, but he didn't let it show. "Yes?"

"Are there any special instructions regarding her care?" Dorian said, a little too loudly, making sure his voice would carry to the bed where Peredura was directing Fear to give her space so she could gain her feet. Quietly, so she couldn't hear, he added, "Did you tell her?"

Cullen's glare should have been enough of an answer, but he elaborated, "I did. Last night. But she had already fallen asleep."

Dorian's gray eyes sparkled. "But surely you told her again, this morning…"

"I've been trying, but every time I keep getting interrupted, by Stitches or breakfast or that hound."

Dorian wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh until his sides ached, but he knew that would not only hurt Cullen's feelings, but it would allow Peredura to catch on. "Would you, erm, like a moment to…"

"No, no," Cullen held up his hand. He must have spoken too loudly, as he caught Peredura glancing their way with a thoughtful frown on her features. "No restrictions at all. She's smart enough to know her own limitations, what she can or cannot do." Then he dropped his voice again, "The moment's passed. There'll be another opportunity, later on, I'm sure. But I really do have to go, Dorian, if there's nothing else…" He left the sentence hang expectantly.

"No, no, Commander, go on and take care of your soldiery matters. I'll take on the challenge of entertaining Peredura until you're free once more."

Cullen huffed, "I'm sure she's in good hands." Then he was gone.

Dorian turned back to Peredura, who had managed to free her legs from the confines of the comforter and, under Fear's careful supervision, was preparing to stand and make her way to the table for breakfast. "Is everything alright?" she asked, glancing up at him.

Thinking she might have heard part of their conversation, and not wanting to spoil the surprise, he answered as innocently as he could manage, "No, nothing's wrong, why would you think that?

She gestured at his features, "You look a bit embarrassed, you know, red in the face."

Dorian flashed his pearly white teeth at her, "No, my dear, I'm not embarrassed, I'm never embarrassed. This is just a sunburn."

"Oh."

"Is everything alright with you?"

She sniffed, but managed a smile in answer. "Yes, well, mostly, I just need a little time, after… everything that's happened to… you know, collect myself. Oh, Dorian…!"

He was caught off guard to find her suddenly leaning against him, crying into his shoulder. Awkwardly he patted her back, wondering what had brought this on, wondering if he could get Cullen back into the room without alerting anyone…

"It's so hard," she wailed softly, "I've tried. I've tried to whittle away at his defenses. I've gotten him to notice me. I've gotten him to kiss me. I've even gotten him to share his secrets with me. But I can't get him to say it. I'm beginning to think I never will, that he never will, that he cannot love me…"

Oh, Dorian thought to himself, then a little louder. "Oh. Oh, my dear girl, no, no, no," he patted her shoulder again, then began leading her to the table. "No, don't give up. You must persevere. I insist on it. Cullen's a stubborn man, yes, but there's a stubborn streak inside you, too. I'm sure he has feelings for you."

"But… is it love? Or just friendship? Or just liking each other? Or…"

"Hush," he shoved some sort of sweet bread covered in caramel and nuts into her mouth. "No more of that. I insist! Not another word on the matter. Trust me, Peredura," he settled a napkin on her lap and placed a plate in front of her, "I do know one or two things about love. And if a man is willing to kiss you," he did his best not to think of Bull, "Then he's willing to admit his feelings towards you. Don't give up, my dear girl. Give it a little more time. Though you may have to take matters into your own hands."

"What do you mean?" she finally managed to swallow the roll. "Should I tell him that I love him? I… I don't think… I could… what if he doesn't…"

"Now you see what he could be going through, working up the courage to tell you the same? Here, have this, I think they call it a crepe, some sort of think cake, but it's supposed to be delicious." Dorian swallowed himself, thinking he may have almost let too much slip, and had hastily tried to smooth things over. "Culen may simply need the right opportunity. Later today, if he doesn't come back to you, then you go to him. Go to him, just the two of you, and see what happens. Now finish your breakfast."

* * *

Cullen didn't make it back to see her. She had finished breakfast, retired to her chambers—now that they were secured of spies and Dorian had vacated them—taken a bath and cleaned her hair, but Cullen did not check in on her. She had spent hours playing chess with Dorian, whiling away the time in idle chatter, but Cullen sent no word. Finally, a good two hours after supper, she gave up and took Dorian's advice.

Cullen's office at the Val Royeaux estate was larger than his one at Skyhold, darker too with stained woods and heavy drapes. A desk claimed the center, easily the size of a cot, and already littered with reports and parchment and inkwells and sealing wax. When she slipped in from the hallway, pressing herself against the wall, her long brown hair mimicking the paneling, she found him standing before his desk, his men and women gathered around him, handing out commands calmly and confidently.

"Rylen's men will monitor the situation. In the meantime, we'll send soldiers to…" his voice caught as his eyes were drawn to the movement of the door opening and closing. He could easily spy her, despite her attempt at camouflage, and felt his heart give a flop at the sight. She was looking more like herself again, though still thin and pale, and briefly he was reminded of that first meeting back in Haven all those months ago, when she pressed herself up against the wall and hoped no one would notice her. Hiding as she was behind the door, it was a very similar sight. Then she smiled at him oh so very slightly, and batted her eyes just once, and he felt his blood heat. Maker, but he had to get rid of everyone else. Now! "…assist as needed. That will be all."

There was a chorus of "Ser!" as his soldiers acknowledged his orders, and he walked with them towards the door, his arms spread to usher them outside. Peredura watching them file out, standing behind the door where she hoped she might go unnoticed, or at least be less noticed and hopefully quickly forgotten. It seemed as if luck was finally on her side, as no one mentioned her presence or acknowledged her. When the door closed, heavy and solid, Cullen leaned against it a moment longer, feeling the weight of command pressing him down and feeling the need for a little momentary support. "There's always something more, isn't there?"

"Long day?" She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but she had hoped he would find the time to come to her, not force her to come to him.

He made a small noise of disgust, but whether it was over the amount of work that continually haunted him, or his disgust over allowing himself to share his weakness, it was hard to tell. "I shouldn't complain," was the only explanation he would give, turning away from the door, and Peredura, needing to give himself a little space. Her presence here, at this moment, was like an answer to his prayers, a long-overdue chance to say what he wanted—needed—to tell her. The only question was: how?

He needed a preamble, a segue, something that would allow him to broach the subject without opening himself up too much—just in case she didn't feel for him as deeply as he felt for her. Standing beside his desk, he began, "This war won't last forever. When it started, I hadn't considered much beyond our survival. But things are different now," he turned back towards her, willing her to understand.

Peredura pushed herself off the wall, following him, her face slightly perplexed as she asked, "What do you mean?"

He wanted to look away, he could feel his courage flagging, but he bolstered himself and trudged on through the trenches as any good soldier would do. And, looking into her soft brown eyes, seeing her before him so open and willing—she had come to his office, after all!—the words began to come of their own volition. "I find myself wondering what will happen after. When this is over, I won't want to move on…" his voice softened, filling with the love he was trying to proclaim, "Not from you."

His hand reached out, the gloved fingers stroking her unscarred cheek. She smiled at him, slightly, gently, and he smiled in return, feeling the warmth of his love and wanting to share it, but… Maker's breath, she'd done nothing more than smile at him. And he was about to say he loved her?! Surely she knew by now what he was trying to say. Surely she could take a hint. Surely… but she continued to do nothing more than smile, and when the silence grew, a tiny furrow of confusion creased her brow.

Courage fled, doubt invaded, and his brain stumbled to the forefront to pick up the battle. "But I don't know what you…" he watched that furrow grow, "That is, if you…" he had to turn away, needing air, reaching for the solidness of his desk, praying he wasn't making too much a fool of himself, "Ah…" he finished, failing utterly. Had it been this hard last night, he wondered to himself. Where had his courage gone? What happened to his words, those words, those self-cutting swords that would lay his soul bare before the woman he could not live without. He shuffled some papers, not that he hoped to find the words on them, but just to have something to do, some excuse as to why he turned away from her and towards his desk.

Peredura stared at his shoulder in shock. Cullen was running away. Briefly she was reminded of the old Cullen, the one who would take flight at the first sign of flirtatious banter, employ a standard tactic of running away whenever things got too serious. Could this mean… did she dare hope… and yet it seemed as if he was trying to say… that after Corypheus was defeated… that he wanted to remain with her…

Yet how could he be so dense? Didn't he notice all the signs she gave him, all the advances, all they shared? Why was he so hesitant, so willing to retreat at the first sign of defeat. "Cullen," she chided him, walking around his shoulder, slipping in between him and the desk. Ducking her head beneath his, catching his eye, she offered, "Do you need to ask?"

Boldly she sat on the edge of the desk, spreading her legs, bracing her hands behind her. If he didn't understand this, then she'd say those words first, but damn him even Cullen couldn't be this thick-skulled.

"I…" he attempted to answer, his voice husky with innuendo, "I suppose not, I…" Quickly a change came over him and he sputtered, "Well, yes, yes, as a matter of fact," he put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her before him, keeping himself before her, "Yes I do. I do need to ask. I won't assume anything when it comes to you; you're too important to me. I…" his hazel eyes flickered back and forth as he finished, "I love you, Pere."

Her heart sang with triumphant joy.

"Oh, Cullen, I love you, too…"

Her hand twitched, sliding just a little as she shifted, and brushed against a bottle of wine. Said bottled had been leaning over slightly, half of its base on a stack of papers and half on the desk, so it easily became unbalanced. In the blink of an eye the bottle fell, landing on the tiled floor and shattering. She gasped in surprise over the sound, over the mess, over her regret for having caused it.

"Oh, oh no," her hand flew up to her face as she looked up from the shards, "I'm sorry, Cullen, I'll clean it up, I promise, just give me a moment and… and I'll… Cullen…?"

He had looked up from the broken bottle at the same time she had, but his mind was reeling with other thoughts. He'd not only told her he loved her, but she said she loved him, too. He wanted to crow with triumph, never feeling such elation before, such victory, such hard-won success. Yet all she could say now was that she wanted to clean up a spilled bottle of wine? He shook his head, for the second time that day giving up on understanding the mind of a woman. Perhaps it was due to the long-awaited proclamation, perhaps it was due to the relief that she felt the same as he, perhaps it was simply due to the stress of the past several days bleeding away and falling behind them, but he felt an impulse. Very unlike himself, he could see it in his mind's eye, and before he considered it he was reaching around behind her, his arm sweeping over the surface of his desk, sending everything else after that initial spill. Then he was leaning over her, forcing her to lay back, further and further until she was lying across the top of his desk, his arm beneath her helping her to slide a little further so he could get onto the desk as well.

"Ser, I've a message from…"

If Peredura thought he had moved quickly and decisively before, she was astounded by his even quicker reaction to the interruption. "Quickly, man! Bring that lantern. She's fainted."

"Ser?" the solider queried, but Cullen didn't act as if anything else was amiss, other than her supposedly fainting. His hand was beside her face, shielding it from the soldier, as he loomed over her in what he prayed appeared as a concerned manner. When the soldier turned to pick up the lantern near the door, Cullen nonchalantly shifted off the desk, making sure to stand in a manner so that the soldier might think he could have been mistaken if he had thought he'd seen his Commander straddling the Inquisitor on a desk…

Peredura felt her cheeks burn, but Cullen's were hotter.

"Here's the lantern."

"Good man," Cullen acknowledged, waiting until Peredura closed her eyes before moving his hand away. "Burn the tip of that parchment, would you? The acrid smoke should be enough to revive her."

"Is she… I mean," the soldier did as he was asked, holding the smoldering edge to Cullen, "We know she was ill, or hurt, that's why we're here, but…"

"She's fine," Cullen assured him, "She just overtaxed herself this evening. There, she's coming around now, see?"

Peredura batted her eyes, taking her cue from his words, and pretended to just be waking up. "I… oh, Commander… what happened… I feel so woozy…"

"Take it slow, your Worship," the soldier suggested, helping Cullen to lift her to a sitting position, "It was just a bit of a spell. Nothing serious. Right, Commander?"

"Yes, you're alright now, Inquisitor," Cullen agreed. Then he acted as if he just remember why the soldier was there in the first place, "Oh, ah, did you have something to report."

"You had a report to give? Did my, um, 'spell' interrupt something important?"

"Of course not, Inquisitor. It was from Rylen, ser. He stated that all was quiet around the perimeter, so he was about to enlarge the search area to the surrounding streets."

"What was this?" she asked, curious and a little bit confused.

"Nothing to worry about," Cullen mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes. "Routine patrol. Very good, soldier, carry on."

"Ser, he wanted to know, well," the soldier looked at Peredura, cleared his throat, and tried again, "Rylen wanted me to ask you about the description, if it included, um, a you-know-what."

"What is this?" Peredura repeated, a little bit stronger this time.

Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose; damn, but this evening was turning out poorly. "There was a report earlier of someone lurking nearby, perhaps reconnoitering the grounds. Probably an Orlesian who got too close, or is trying to check up on his fellow who was caught spying yesterday." He didn't want to tell Peredura anything more than that, she'd been through enough lately, and there really weren't any grounds for concern. "Tell Rylen, as far as I know, the description was not detailed, but he should keep his eyes open for any suspicious activity. Understood?"

"Ser!" the soldier clicked his heels together, snapping off a smart salute. "Inquisitor!" Then he spun and left.

Cullen's shoulders deflated as soon as the door closed. "Maker's breath, that was close." Shyly he looked at her, still half-sprawled on the top of his desk, looking flushed and wide-eyed and oh-so-desirable. That impulse returned, but Cullen was back in control and able to ignore it.

"Do your men often enter your office without knocking."

"Yes," he admitted bluntly, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. "I've never had a reason before to keep them out. Nothing private goes on in here, and it's important for them to know they can reach me here, or leave a message for me, at any time of the day or night."

"Then, as your Inquisitor and, therefore, outranking you, might I give you a suggestion? Not an order, mind," her voice went dangerously low, "Just a suggestion."

"Yes?" he swallowed, not sure if he would like what she might suggest.

But she surprised him, reaching up on tiptoe to press her lips against his, "Since that conversation we were having is private, and as you said nothing private ever goes on in your office, then let's retire to a more private setting and continue our conversation. Someplace where we won't have someone walking in on us."

She glanced to the side, towards the door that led to his chambers, the chambers she had used the night before. He followed her gaze, returned his eyes back to hers, and smiled, "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already shared this on another story, but you all deserve an explanation as well.
> 
> I am sorry, my dears, so very, very, very sorry for my long absence. I cannot even begin to tell you all that has been happening to me these past several months. I've always thought: Courage is not the lack of having fears, but the act of doing what must be done in the face of those fears. And I… I am a coward.
> 
> I have come face-to-face with several of my deepest, darkest, most secretive fears. That I have survived these encounters is obvious, but it wasn't without earning my own scars. Scars, and emotions, which have held me in a suspension of writer's block, far too afraid of putting words on the page lest these overwhelming emotions take over and leave me shaken and broken and blubbering.
> 
> It took more than two months before I could even look at a story, much less tap into my muse and open up that Pandora's box of emotion within me that I feared would have no bottom and which might lead to me expelling far too much of my self, my emotions, into the aforementioned words.
> 
> But writing is cathartic for me. Therapeutic. Even as necessary as air and food and water on occasion. And though it pained me to write, I discovered a strength inside me, an ability to fight and overcome my fears… and I know I have finally started to heal.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for your patience with me, for your reviews, for simply reading my stories and being there and reminding me that I'm not alone. I know I am stronger for having survived, but I am even stronger for having you. *HUGS*


	29. Impulse

The sound of the door closing behind her made her heart give a little nervous flip-flop.

Not that she didn't want this—Maker's breath, as he would say, but for how long had she wanted this, the two of them, alone and about to…

Peredura swallowed, feeling more nervous than ever. It had been one thing, to be feeling so frustrated with the man that she had to track him down and corner him in his office. It had been another thing, to feel that mind-numbing-elation when he finally said those words—oh, blessed Andraste, he loved her! And then still another thing, to be so caught up in the moment, swept along by all her emotions, like when he swept his desk off so they could have a place to lay down…

But this was different. This wasn't impulsive, spur of the moment, caught off guard, swept along by emotion. This was deliberate. This was with purpose and intent. And, though she couldn't know how nervous and itchy he had felt before telling her of his love, she was feeling the same way now, as if she were about to crawl out of her skin and run away. Her skin…

"Pere?" his light, tenor voice caressed her ears as his hands held her upper arms, the nearness of his body behind hers a comfort and security. "Are you alright? Is anything wrong?"

"I, erm, no, I mean, yes, I'm fine, but…" When her words paused, and without looking, somehow he knew she was masticating her lower lip. One of his hands left her shoulder to press his thumb against her chin and pull her lip from her teeth. She smiled at that, feeling a little silly, a little embarrassed, and even a little relieved for some reason. She took his hand in hers and turned to face him. "Would you mind it at all if, um, the lamp was turned down?"

"The… lamp?" Cullen questioned, not sure what she could mean. Why would she want it dark in here, unless… "Is it this room? The bed? Of course, you must have unpleasant memories of last night. We could go elsewhere, to your chambers, or…"

"No, no, it's not the room, or the bed, it's… ah…" Once again, as ever, when words would failed her, when the emotions would grow too strong to communicate, when she would have no idea what else she could or should do, she gripped her lip between her teeth. Immediately she felt his hand tug in hers as if he would reach up and free her lip as he had just done, but she didn't want him to let go. She consciously let go of her lip, trying hard to keep her mouth opened, as she racked her brain for words—any words—that could fill her empty mouth and bare the secrets she kept buried within her soul. "I'd just feel more comfortable if it were, um, a little softer lighting."

Cullen gave her a hard stare, not that she was looking up at him, turning her face side-to-side as if casting about for some sort of inspiration of what to say or do, something—anything—other than what she should be saying. There was something more going on than her wanting mood lighting. But, as he could see no reason not to and he did want her to be at ease tonight, he obeyed. He let go of her to walk over to the lamp near the balcony doors; someone, probably a servant, had replaced it and the table sometime earlier that day. He turned it down until it was a dull glow, until the light of the fire in the hearth outshone the lamp. As he leaned back up his eyes fell on her, standing next to his bed, her face lifted towards him, one soft brown eye peeking at him from behind a curtain of overgrown bangs, and he quite suddenly heard himself say, "You are so beautiful."

His voice was tender, full of a deep emotion, wrapping around her like a warm blanket, soothing and comforting and safe. When he stepped back before her, when he stared down into her eyes, when he touched her shoulders, she lost herself and melted against him, giving in to the moment, the man, the emotion.

It started with a kiss, a pressing of lips, a meeting of their mouths that at first seemed unsure of where to go or what to do next. Even though they had kissed countless times before, somehow tonight it seemed new and fresh, like that first time all over again. Another nervous twitter fluttered her stomach, making her wonder, if they were both so inexperienced, would they end up botching this night? But the thought was quickly dismissed. This felt too good to go wrong, as simple and chaste as it was—a mere kiss that was making her blood race through her veins, that was heating her from within, fueling some secret furnace while weakening her knees. Her arms wrapped around him for support, her fingers burrowing into the long and soft fur mantle that draped his shoulders and back. Then her knees gave a twitch, threatening again to buckle, and her mouth opened with a sudden gasp.

Cullen felt the same apprehension as she did, the same doubts, and the same heat—though his blood raced to fill a slightly different area. But when her lips moved against his, when her mouth opened, instinct took over. His lips parted, his tongue darting forward to touch her lips, to slip between her teeth, to find her tongue and taste. Oh, Maker, the taste of her. Warm and hearty like a beef stew, simmering in a dark gravy, fresh baked bread smothered with butter, and topped off with a dry red wine. It had probably been her supper, but the taste made him realize he'd missed his, and suddenly he was hungry for more.

More Peredura.

He felt her arms behind him, sliding up and down, her fingers burrowing like claws into his mantle and tapping through it against his armor. He smiled, the corner of his mouth pulling back and allowing a small break to form in their kiss, and she gasped for air. He decided it was as good a time as any, and pulled his mouth away, almost laughing when she tried to follow him and keep the kiss going. No, whatever their respective pasts, whatever the level of their experience—or lack thereof—tonight was definitely NOT going to be a disaster.

Unless he couldn't get his armor off.

He had left for his office without his armor that morning, but once Peredura and Dorian had vacated his chambers, he had gone back inside long enough to claim his armor and cloak and finish dressing. It was routine, a habit, his normal mode of dress, so of course he had wanted to wear his armor. Now, however, he was regretting his decision; it would be so much easier to shrug out of a coat than to have to first untie the straps and unbuckle the fastenings and…

While he'd been lamenting his poor planning and foresight, Peredura had been busy. Her quick and roguish fingers had already sought out and loosened the outer knots. He almost chuckled when he heard her little breath of triumph after she unclasped the wide belt, allowing the edges of the mantle to fall free. He did smile, or at the very least gave her a smirk and shrugged obligingly when she reached up to push the heavy fabric off his shoulders.

Then he really did laugh when the mantle caught on his shoulder spaulders. She gave a grunt of frustration, trying to shove it off and over the bits of metal that stuck out, but she was too short. He calmly took hold of her hands, catching her eye and making her stop. "It's easier to take the armor off first, before the cloak."

"I don't see why you have to wear such complicated clothing," she pouted, dropping her hands and allowing him to remove the metal obstacles covering his arms, "Or why so many layers."

"It's habit," he shrugged. "Why, how many layers of clothing do you have on? It was a fairly chilly day today, warmer than Skyhold, but still a lot cooler than what you're used to. You must have on more than just the coat and leggings,"

She caught the guard covering his forearm before it could fall to the floor. "Maybe, well, yes, but just a tunic, though a really thick one, and a single tunic is a lot less than all these…" she waggled her fingers at the small yet growing pile of fabric and metal,"…hunks of junk."

Cullen held out one of the spaulders, his finger tapping along a gouge, "This particular 'hunk of junk' saved my life. Remember that dragon?"

She wanted to retort, 'Which dragon?', but knew he had only fought that one with her, while she had already fought several. She did indulge in rolling her eyes. "Well, sure, if we're fighting a dragon, I could see why you would want to wear armor," she allowed, taking the item from him and adding it to the pile. "But there are no dragons here, not in Val Royeaux, are there? Why wear all this?"

He pulled his gloves off his fingers, handing them over while he at long last got out from beneath the mantle. "Habit. I've been a templar for most of my life; I feel, well, naked, without some sort of armor weighing my shoulders."

She helped him remove the breastplate, exposing the coat and tunic that lay beneath. Her eyes traveled suggestively up and down the length of him, such a long way to travel, and she snarked, "So you're telling me, you feel naked, right now?"

He held his arms in front of him, one wrapped across his chest, the other hanging down towards his groin. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel very exposed at the moment."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, almost believing him… almost. That corner of his mouth twitched, moving the scar on his upper lip, and she realized he was teasing her. It was hard for her not to laugh, and she tried punching him on the arm—now that it was without armor and wouldn't break her hand—to keep from doing so. But he caught her hand, his reflexes far too quick and well-trained. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, and suddenly found themselves on the verge of something other than humor. His fingers grew gentle, shifting from cupping her fist to sliding his digits between hers, moving their entwined hands down to their side. His other hand came up, his calloused fingers rough against the unscarred side of her face as he now burrowed his fingers in her hair. Once in place, the pressure of his hand adjusted, his thumb beneath her chin lifting her up while his fingers against her skull making her head tilt.

Then his lips were there once more, warm against hers, moving and encouraging her to move as well. She remembered their last kiss, how his tongue had broached the battlements of her teeth and found her own tongue, how it had tasted of stale bread and cheese and cold meats—no doubt the half-forgotten remnants of his lunch that had sat for hours before he finally managed the time to take a bite or two. She'd have to take matters into her own hands she decided, whenever they were together whether at Skyhold or traveling abroad, to make sure he remembered to eat and drink and take care of himself. He could get so focused on work, that the simple tasks that kept one healthy and alive were often missed by him. No wonder he had a rough morning.

Her tongue lifted up timidly, the tip moving just far enough to reach the edge of her teeth, to run along the enamel sentries, wondering where he could be. As if in answer, his tongue was there, acting like it had been waiting for her, tempting her and teasing her until she ventured from the safety of her mouth… and discovered his.

It became a cross between a battle and a dance, the moves choreographed to compliment one another, to war for dominance and possession of the other while sharing in the victory over their union. But she did have ulterior motives. While he kissed her, while her eyes were closed so she could focus on enjoying the warm wrestling of wet muscles, her free hand was not idle. She reached in between them, her fingers moving as deftly as if she were picking a lock, unfastening the toggles of his coat, starting at the bottom and working her way up. At one point, while she hovered near his abdomen, she felt him laugh breathily into her mouth. She thought at first that she had discovered he was ticklish, but much to her chagrin she learned something else.

Opening her eyes, she found he had been looking at her the whole time they had been kissing, staring at her and watching her and seeing exactly what she was doing, what she was trying to be so discreet about. She leaned back, breaking off their kiss, feeling his hand fall away from the back of her head. "You've been peeking."

"And you've been busy," he countered, letting go of her other hand. Shamelessly she returned to his buttons, moving faster now that she could use both hands and didn't have to try to be sly about it.

"I'm impatient. I've waited a long time for this," she finished the last closure, immediately shoving the material to the sides and exposing his chest to her hungry eyes. There was a tunic beneath, of course, but that was all that remained to hide his body from her.

"How long?" he wondered, trying not to get in her way as she pulled and yanked his sleeves off his arms, lest she grow frustrated and tear his favorite coat.

She paused, giving the question serious thought. "Ages, it seems," she admitted, tossing the coat after the rest. She wanted to pull off his tunic next, but his hands on hers kept her from reaching his waist.

"No, I think you've done enough for now. It's my turn. Let's see what you have under your coat, shall we?"

He spun her around, so her back was to his front. She gasped, surprised, but he didn't leave her long to wonder what he could be about. His hands started at her throat, finding the metal clasps of her coat and, slowly, one-by-one, his fumbling so natural she couldn't believe he was doing this on purpose and drawing out the suspense—for both of them—he undid the fastenings. When he got halfway, his hand appeared to accidentally slip inside, a movement so unpracticed and jerky, as his other movements had been, that she began to suspect the slip—all of the clumsiness—had to be deliberate.

"Cullen."

He didn't answer, not right away, other than to hum into her ear, the stubble on his cheek catching her hair, his other hand continuing to work the buttons while his first hand remained firmly in place. However, his fingers kept moving as if they were still trying to open her coat.

"Cullen," she repeated, a little more forceful.

"Yes." His hand moved further inside, spreading out over the whole breast.

"Um, Cullen," her tone changed again, almost pleading now, her breath becoming erratic, short and deep, slow and fast. "That's not a button."

"Are you sure?" His fingers twitched, the tips moving around and finding something hard, albeit beneath her tunic and not over it.

"Ah…" she sighed, excited and fearful and amazed and aroused—all at the same time! "Yes, yes I'm sure, I am very sure." Somehow, his other hand had managed the rest of the buttons on its own, and now the front of her coat fell apart. Both his hands were there, stroking her breasts, his long and thick fingers sliding up and down, across her nipples. She could feel the pressure of each and every finger, and the release as each nipple popped out between them, only to be pushed back by the next finger.

"Do you know something?" His voice was hot against her ear, the sound trumpeting despite his whispering.

"…what…?" she whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensations, meaning to pull away if only to catch her breath, but instead molding her body against his. Her head, growing light and dreamy, fell back across his shoulder, exposing her neck to his lips.

"I don't think you have anything on beneath your tunic," he mouthed over the vein in her throat.

"I… don't…" she agreed.

"Truly," he paused in his lathing, his hands pausing as well, "Not a single, er, piece?"

"Not even knickers." Her statement was so matter-of-fact, so immediate, and so without embarrassment, that he had to stop completely and spin her around to face him.

"Don't you… I mean, erm… isn't it… doesn't it get cold… and, you know… falling about and bouncing and… um…"

Her head was still fuzzy, and she found herself really wishing his hands would go back to what they had been doing, even if it had caught her unawares at first, she had quickly discovered that she really liked it, and why oh why was the idiot just standing there like he'd been turned to stone! "What? Why? Is something wrong?"

"You really don't wear underclothes?" he seemed to need to clarify, remembering that one morning he had, erm, given her a very chaste sponge bath and discovered she had nothing beneath her tunic, and only now wondering if that hadn't been an oversight but a… habit. "Not just today, for some reason, or some other particular day, but, ah, never?"

She shrugged. "I'm not used to them, I suppose. I might have had them when I was little, but that's not the sort of thing one remembers from their childhood. And, well, I really didn't have much in the way of clothing while I was a slave, so…" she shrugged again. "I've got a few sets of those things now, but they seem so complicated, and I haven't decided if they'd do any good at all, my armor does a good enough—or better—job of keeping my breasts in place, and when I'm in a fight is really the only time I need the support, so I haven't bothered trying to figure them out, how to put them on and arrange my bits into them and stuff like that. What? Cullen, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it wrong, what I'm doing, going around without any knickers on?"

He was still for a heartbeat longer. Then a sudden breath whooshed from his lungs, a strong blink broke his trance, and he gripped her shoulders as if to steady himself. "I honestly cannot answer that," he stated, but before she could wonder what he meant, he was kissing her. Kissing her and leaning against her, his arms around her while his hands stroked up and down her back. He spun them around, continuing to lean against her, until she gave under his weight, his force propelling them across the floor. The heel of her boot caught on something and she felt herself falling, falling and dragging him with her, until they landed with a heavy creak onto the bed.

He let her go as they landed, both of them bouncing, both of them letting loose nervous little bursts of laughter. Peredura rolled to her side so she could face him, her face alive and shining, her hair falling back out of the way, her lips parted and panting, her eyes bright and warm. Never to Cullen's eyes had she looked so beautiful. And to think that she was there, in his chambers, on his bed. That she was HIS love.

"What?" she asked again, "Why are you staring at me like that? Is it still having to do with my lack of undergarments?"

He rolled over to face her fully, his hand cupping the back of her head, stroking through her long brown hair. "Yes," he leaned forward and kissed her, wet though brief. "And no," his hand moved from her hair to her shoulder, and lower down her side, to where her tunic was tucked into her leggings just above her hips. "And so much more."

He grabbed a fistful of fabric and yanked. She gasped, mostly from surprise, though her breath did grow a little heavier as he began lifting, pulling the fabric from her waistband as he brought it up towards her head. Her lower lip went of its own volition in between her teeth and she closed her eyes. He stopped, sensing her apprehension, her nervousness, her lack of self-confidence. "Pere," he chided, gently, letting go of her shirt so that it covered her once more, but leaving his hand beneath it where he could touch her, where she could feel his touch.

"It's alright," she answered, lifting her soft brown eyes up to his disbelieving and hard-as-steel hazel eyes. Her face was flushed, from embarrassment, from passion, from his gentle scolding, it was too hard to tell. "I'm nervous, that's all," she confessed, her expression so honest and open and so easily read by him that he found himself beginning to believe her. "I've never… I mean, sure, I have… others have seen them… but this is the first time I've… well… I've had any say in the matter… that's it's been my choice… but I'm still a little nervous… what you'll think of… my scars."

"I've seen them before, you know," he reminded her, softly, as softly as his hand was moving up from her hip to her waist.

She was nodding, closing her eyes briefly, but then making herself open them and meet his gaze. "At Haven, in the back room of the Chantry, when I told you all of my past."

"After that," he countered, his hand now a little higher, his fingers dipping in and out of the furrows between her ribs. She shuddered, obviously feeling what he was doing, but also not stopping him. "During your withdrawal. You had that one bad morning, when you sicked up, and then talked about a bath and clean clothes…"

"I knew it!" she breathily exclaimed. His thumb was in the warm crevice beneath her breast while his fingers fanned back and forth across the whole globe, but she remained distracted from the plight of her tunic by the sudden revelation. "You… I knew it was you. You did say you would see to my bath personally."

"That's not what I meant," he allowed the blush to flush his cheeks, but only to make her feel more comfortable. "I mean, yes, I did, very chastely of course, wash the mess from your hair and, um, wipe down your torso a bit, put a fresh tunic on you, those sorts of things. But my point is that I've already seen your scars. They didn't put me off then; I doubt I'll feel any differently now." He lifted his hand to her armpit, her tunic stretched diagonally, exposing over half of her torso, her scars.

But she didn't stop him. She didn't close her eyes out of slave-like obedience.

She did, however, shrug her shoulder to slip her arm out though the sleeve. Eyes shining impulsively, she took the fabric from his hand and popped her head free, then bunched it beneath her other armpit. She held his gaze the whole time, daring him to break off to look, and begging him to ignore the ugly marks she could never erase. It had taken courage, so much courage, to believe and trust and allow this, that if he failed her now, at this point…

Cullen knew how pivotal this step had been for her and didn't let the momentum die. He pushed her onto her back, following to hover over her, keeping them face-to-face, before tugging her other arm free. Oh, he could easily see her emotions, she was nervous, she was insecure, but she was trusting—of him, of their relationship, of their love. He would not betray that. Rather, he would reinforce it.

He ducked his head, shifting downwards, until his lips pressed against the throbbing pulse in her neck. He placed one of her hands at his waist, and she eagerly took the hint, all but ripping his tunic from his body. He moved lower, half to help her lift the fabric off of him, and half to position himself better for his next attack. As she tugged off and tossed his tunic aside, he bent his neck and descended on her breasts.

She moaned, loudly, and he had a momentary bout of nervousness himself, wondering what someone might think if they overheard that. But he knew the doors on this room were thick. He knew, though his men were allowed to freely enter his office at any time, day or night, should they need him—they were to never bother him once he left for his bedchamber. Not that it happened all that often, of course, that he would leave his desk for his bed, but when it did happen he was never disturbed. And he and Peredura would not be disturbed tonight—no matter how loudly she moaned.

She was positively thrumming from pleasure within his embrace, lost in the moment, the sensation, of his lips and tongue teasing her nipple into such a tiny little nub he was sure it must hurt. But she didn't protest, she didn't push him away; if anything, once she had gotten rid of his tunic, her fingers entrenched themselves in his hair, holding his head—his mouth—in place. He gladly obeyed her nonvocal command, one hand reaching across to tease the other nipple.

Gooseflesh erupted across her skin, making her gasp, making her writhe, but he didn't let up. He really didn't have too many ideas of what he should be doing, most of his inspiration coming from barracks-talk and the exaggerated bragging of fellow recruits comparing conquests. Yet it was plain to see she was enjoying this, and if she was enjoying something so much, he didn't see a good reason yet to move on to the one or two other things he was planning to do. Another bout of nervousness gripped his heart, of wondering what he was doing and would it be enough and could he actually follow through and Maker-what-would-she-think-of-him-after?!?!?! He swallowed, fighting off tonight's anxiety the same way he would fight off his lyrium-induced hallucinations, and focused on what was real, what was tangible, what was right there in front of him.

Peredura, his love.

She felt his body shift and feared he might leave off what he was doing to her breast—Blessed Andraste but it was heavenly! His fingers… his lips… his tongue… his teeth! She could barely think, overwhelmed with how her body was reacting, overloaded with the amount of sensational input. She dug her fingers in even tighter, refusing to let his hair go, never wanting this to end. She could feel the heat building up inside her, down between her legs, an aching emptiness that she wanted him to fill, that she knew he would fit… and it was all so new, so unexpected, so RIGHT!

He shifted again, but not to pull away, rather to settle his mouth over her other breast, leaving the first exposed to the cool air of the bedchamber. Peredura gasped, arching her back, pushing her one breast further into his warmth while the other was left bare, the skin still wet with his saliva, cooling it even more. There she hung in limbo, between the heat and the cold, between cover and exposure. Her legs shifted and opened beneath him, moving of their own accord, answering to something other than her brain, something primal and instinctual and oh-so-very-needy…

Her pants were loose. She could feel the fabric move as her legs wrapped around his chest. That's why Cullen had left her breast out in the cold, so his hand could be free to undo her buckle and start to tug off her leggings. Oh, he was devious too, and she knew it after all the times he would suggestively tease her in front of others without their catching on. But even so, he had managed to pull this one over on her. She groaned, a little frustrated, a little annoyed, and gave his head a little tussle.

Cullen felt the tug and knew he had been found out. He laughed, hot and breathy and fanning her wet skin, making her other nipple tighten just like the first. Maker's breath! but she was responsive. And… so was he. He could feel it, feel himself, thicken and harden to the point where he was becoming a bit pinched inside his own leggings. He wanted to take this slow, he wanted to make this special for her, he wanted their first time to be perfect.

And he wanted to get their leggings off so he could…

He snarled at himself, almost out loud, his lips baring his teeth as sweat erupted all over his body. He was NOT going to lose control of himself right there inside his own pants. He WAS going to pay attention to her, her reactions, her readiness. He wanted her to enjoy this so much… to be first to enjoy this… to get those fucking leggings off!!!

"Bah… bah…" she tried to speak, her breaths heavy, halfway between a pant and a laugh, "…boo …boots…"

Boots! Yes! He should have thought of that! Damn, but that was his problem in a nutshell: he wasn't thinking. He was acting. Reacting. Losing himself in the moment. In the passion. He was…

He took a deep breath, settling his mind, dropping his head to press his forehead against her flesh. She was cool to the touch, either that or he was burning up, but the coolness helped to clear his thoughts, and he felt he could continue. He opened his eyes, intending to move to where he could reach her boots; opening his eyes, however, turned out to be a bad idea. He was directly above her pussy, the small triangular patch of soft brown hair already starting to dampen with her moisture. One of those barracks-talk stories came to mind, well, several actually, of what could be found hidden within those precious curls, something mysterious and tiny and—if the stories could be believed, which was highly doubtful, then something that, though the thought of doing such a thing seemed awkward, but for the woman supposedly it would…

Curious, unable to help himself, he lightly stroked a finger over the area, starting from below were she was so hot and wet, feeling her breath catch in her throat, then moving higher, to the base of that upside-down triangle, burrowing inside it, going so slowly, wondering if he would miss it or if it even existed, his shoulders casting the area in darkness so he had to go by touch, and then he did touch it, that had to be the spot as Peredura jerked and moaned so suddenly…

Boots, he reminded himself. Both hers and his. Then their leggings. Then… well, best not to think too far ahead, he decided. He made himself move lower, further than her womanhood, to where her feet were shifting, heels against the rounded edges of the bed, as she tried to kick off her own boots. He helped her, easily tugging the high-heeled footwear off and tossing them over towards the pile of his armor. Then he grabbed the bottoms of her leggings and pulled, hard, nearly pulling her off the bed before she could grab the comforter and brace herself.

"Cullen!" she gasped, but he didn't answer, not verbally, no longer able to trust himself to speak. There was a monster growing inside him, an animal, something strong and primitive and… both scary and exciting at the same time. To let go… to surrender control to it… Maker's breath, not yet! Though Peredura was now sprawled over the bedclothes, her hair mussed, her breasts bobbing with each heaving gasp of air, her torso braced on her elbows, her legs splayed, her mystery open to his gaze,… He stared at her, hungrily, knowing it would be easy, like when he gave in earlier that evening and swept off his desk and laid her on top of it… that animal had been in control then… he had surrendered to it… it was so easy… and she was so ready…

Not yet! he growled silently in his mind. He knew it to be inevitable, the compulsion undeniable, the conclusion unavoidable… But. Not. Yet. Still staring at her, at her wide and doe-like eyes, staring back glazed over with desire and a hunger of her own, he very slowly and very deliberate began to unfasten his own belt. He moved at this pace not to tease her, not to draw it out, not to give her a show, but because it was the only way he could remain in control of himself. He feared, he knew, once he rejoined her on that bed, it would be the end of him.

Yet as in all things, the time came when he had to, when he could no longer stall, when the last stitch of clothing between them was removed and he stood there staring down at her staring up at him, when the lack of movement began to appear awkward. He knew there was no hiding it, his reaction to her, how proud and eager his member stood at the ready. And the way her legs were parted, if he moved to the bed, he would be able to do nothing else but slide home. Yet he had to move, he had to rejoin her, lest she begin to wonder or—even worse—suspect there was something about her scars and lose her fledgling self-confidence and end this night awkwardly…

Yup, that did it, worrying about her anxieties cooled his ardor just enough to allow him to return safely to her. Not that he didn't remain hard, but at least he was no longer on the verge of bursting just by standing before her hungry eyes. He stepped back to the bed, his gaze steady, his voice calm, as he commanded, "Shift up a little." Maker's breath, he was actually going to try this?!?!

She understood the words, but the reasoning behind them confused her, he could tell as she gave her lip a nip. Yet she was under his spell, fully beneath his command, her arms flexing and her ass sliding backwards across the bed, until her head was up near the headboard.

Then he joined her, his weight making the mattress depress and the covers pull. He hovered over her on all fours, bending down to kiss that tortured lip, moving to the hollow of her throat, swaying left and right to revisit each breast. He went lower, low enough that he had to use his hands to spread her legs apart, one hand on either side of her inner thighs, her flesh soft and yielding, pale and smooth. Then further still, his chest spreading her even wider, his hands on the backs of her knees and encouraging her to hitch her legs up over his shoulders.

Dipping his tongue into her navel almost undid them both. It had been an impulsive move, and he should have known better; he was too close to the edge himself to give in to any impulses no matter how innocent. But Peredura quite suddenly burst into giggles, her hands quickly moving to protect her stomach lest he get any ideas. It was too late, however, as he very clearly reached the conclusion that she was ticklish. Oh, he would use against her someday, but not that day. He allowed her the reprieve, squashed down any other demon-like impulses, and resumed his course.

His arms now beneath her, his hands cupping her cheeks, he tilted her hips upwards just a bit more. And then he was there, that precious patch of soft curls, a darker brown than the hair on her head, smaller and not as coarse thanks to her being elven, but effective nonetheless at protecting that most desired of secrets. Oh, he had seen similar sights before, a couple at least, though he hadn't truly been all that interested. But those times were long ago, before Kinloch, when he was still a recruit and had been acting on the dares of his peers. There had never been passion involved before. Intimacy. Love.

Love. That was the main difference. He loved this woman, this woman who lay beneath him, open and willing and wanton and wholly enthralled by him. This woman who bared to him her self, her scars, her soul, her secrets. This woman who sacrificed for him, protected and remained loyal to him, shared and kept his confidences.

Peredura felt his hesitation, wondered at the reason behind it, and pushed herself up on her elbows to see if something was wrong, her voice quavering as she hummed, "Cullen?"

He answered her, but with a kiss. Well, not exactly a kiss. She supposed it could be considered a kiss, like when he kissed her breasts earlier, but this was so much more, felt like so much more, deeper and tender and HOTTER. She didn't think she could feel any hotter down there, or tighter, or tinglier, or wetter, but as he continued to, erm, kiss her, there, a spot she had never known existed before this night, she felt something else. It was as if there was something deep inside her and yet not actually a part of her, as if that tiny bud was tied directly to her soul, and her soul was dancing on the end of that string with each tender kiss.

She felt his tongue dart out, just the tip, to flicker over that little nub. She gasped, her whole body jerking, the sensation over being touched there in that way was too hard to define, or deny. When he flickered again, she was a bit more prepared yet still jumped, her body repeatedly slipping out of her control, over and over as he continued those light, butterfly-like kisses.

She wanted… Blessed Andraste she wanted… more… more Cullen… more of him… that certain part of him… fitting inside her so neatly… that… that one thing… she knew that and only that would finish this… could finish this… finish her…

She was panting between each staggered and stuttering thought. No longer able to keep herself up on her elbows, she had collapsed back against the mattress, completely at his mercy. Yet it seemed he held no mercy, not for her, not tonight. While his tongue continued its lingual torture, his fingers joined in, touching her flushed and heavily swollen lips, stroking them before pressing them apart. She gasped, over and over, as his tongue joined in, licking to either side before sliding into her. She moaned, loudly, her reaction pure and untutored. Simply put, she felt bliss, and she wordlessly voiced her elation.

When he shifted upwards again, when he returned to that tiny bud of sensitivity, she could barely contain herself. "Ahhhhhhh…." she cried, feeling something building inside her, some sort of anticipation, some sort of urgency, some sort of emptiness, of dearth, that she knew he could fill, must fill… "Ahhhhhhh!"

Apparently the barracks-talk was true.

Cullen pulled back, difficult with how tightly her thighs pressed against his ears but he managed it, to see how she was doing. Judging by her reactions, her flushed cheeks and closed eyes and heaving chest, he could see she was getting close, too close, and though he wanted her to cum, he wanted their first time to happen with both of them joined together for it. If he could get her close, if he could keep her there, and then get himself close…

His fingers stroked her lips again, feeling the thickness, the wetness, the trembling…

Uh-oh.

He bent his head, cursing his inexperience, his inability to get the timing just right, but setting aside his self-chastisement for the moment. She needed his full attention, and he gave it. His tongue went back to its torment of her, circling around that little nub, suckling and trying to draw it back out of its hood. His fingers, two of them, did their best imitation of a cock and easily slid inside her. She jerked, crying out again, but not in pain or displeasure. Indeed, she was moving on her own, thrusting herself down on his digits, dancing to an elemental rhythm of lust and passion. He allowed her to set her pace, to control the penetration, as he continued to lick and nibble and…

There was that moment, that hiccough of eternity, when everything in the world seemed to pause. She gave a little tremble, like the foreshock of an earthquake, then held still, as if wondering if that was all or if the real earthquake was about to start. Suddenly her body tensed, curling in on itself, almost to the point of pulling off of him. Her breathing stopped, possibly even her heartbeat, and he waited with baited breath wondering if he should also stop but deciding to continue anyway because something was working right tonight…

She cried out. Peredura all but screamed her pleasure as her hips slammed down onto his fingers, her thighs clamping onto his head, her fingers threatening to tear the comforter, her toes curling on nothing but air. She convulsed, over and over, needy and desperate, giving a little moan or huff with each thrust. He rode out the fit or seizure or whatever she was having, sure that this sort of thing could not be common among women and wondering if he might have hurt her somehow. The seizure seemed to go on forever, his fingers growing thoroughly soaked with her juices, but at long last her movements changed, the rhythm broke down, and she began to twitch and jerk away from his lips and tongue. He let her go, moving instead to lathe up the excess coating his fingers and her pussy. There was still the occasional tremble from deep within her, making her whole body rumble, but the main attacked appeared to be over at last.

Her legs went lax, her fingers unclenched, and he lifted his head to see if she was alright. She looked almost at peace, her chest lifting with breaths that panted out her parted lips, her eyes closed beneath brows curved with bliss, Another impulse swept through him, and this time he was unable to resist. He moved, crawling up the length of her until he hovered over her mouth, then he descended like a hawk in slow motion down onto his target: her other set of lips. His eyes remained open, watching her as she came back around, first her eyelids flickering, then her lips responding to his kiss, then a mumbled moan spilling upwards into his mouth. She at last opened her eyes to find him kissing her, watching her, and she pulled back to see him a little more clearly. There was a very satisfied, sated, dopey grin on her face.

"Wow."

"Wow," he agreed, giving a little chuckle. His thumb came up to her chin, but not because she was chewing her lip this time. There was a spot of moisture on it, no doubt transferred from his chin during the kiss, and he wiped her chin before wiping his own.

"That was… I… I don't… wait, was that…?"

"A climax," he answered, "A very good one, if you had a little spell after." He looked satisfied himself, very proud in fact, cocky, that damnable smirk drawn across his mouth. She wanted to punch him again, she wanted to blush, too, but there really wasn't any denying it.

She came. Hard. And it was all on him.

It really was on him, she giggled to herself, seeing there was still some glistening wetness on his chin just to the side. "What?" he asked, noticing her expression change, wondering what she found so amusing, but she didn't answer him, other than to reach up and finish wiping his face clean.

"Cullen?"

"Hmm?" he hummed, bending down to nuzzle at her neck. She giggled again—damn, he loved that sound—but stubbornly worked to get the words out.

"Cullen, did you, I mean, I know I was, um, well, I didn't really notice if much else was going on, it was kinda hard to focus, but I think I would have noticed THAT."

"What?" he asked, slightly confused, leaving off kissing her collarbone to try to figure out what she was asking.

"Did you, erm, you know…"

"Cum?" he supplied the word for her, watching her cheeks burst into a very fetching deep red. Maker, but she was hot! "No, not yet," he admitted, returning to kissing her, but now moving to the hollow of her throat.

"Um," she gave her lip a brief nip, more out of habit, her fingers drumming his shoulders. "Don't you want to?"

"Yes," he breathed, his voice deep and husky, barely leaving off his kisses.

"Then, ah, I mean, why didn't you, or don't you, I mean…"

He stopped, and she feared she might have said something wrong or awkward or embarrassing—something that would cool his ardor. But when he lifted his face, when his eyes met hers, she could see the smoldering lust lurking within, feel the determined deliberateness as one of his legs slid between her thighs. "I'm not going to satisfy myself and not have you enjoy it, too. You do want to enjoy it, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Then I shall continue." He bent his neck once more, this time laying kisses over her breast.

"Did you, um," her fingers burrowed into his hair, playing with the loosened and frizzy curls, "Did you enjoy it? When I came, I mean? I'd imagine it would be fairly one-sided, just me cumming, and you not. So I have to wonder…"

"I did enjoy it," he admitted, not having realized it until just then, but, "I really did. Just knowing that you experienced something so… incredible… so blissful, and I caused it. I gave you that sensation. I made you cum so hard you passed out. Yes," he moved to her other breast, "Yes, I enjoyed it very much."

Men were so weird, she thought to herself, so hard to understand.

"So, what now?" she queried, though she was fairly sure of the answer.

"Now," he spoke around a mouthful of her nipple, trying to stay in control. "Now we go again." The sex talk was not helping him, or rather it was helping him too much. He was dripping, sure that it would only take a thrust or two before he came, but he didn't want to yet. What he wanted was to find out… if the stories he'd heard about a woman's clit were true… maybe this other story was true, too…

"Again? You mean, me again?"

Maker, this was hard. He was hard. He put a hand down there, pinching himself, trying to pull back from that edge. "Yes. Why not? It could be possible. Some women can. Wouldn't you like to find out?"

"Yes," selfishly she answered, unthinking, but then her conscience kicked in, "But don't you want to?"

"I will," he panted, "This time I will. Maybe sooner than expected."

"Cullen…?" Something was wrong, something new to her, so she had no idea the level of concern she should be feeling about it. But hearing his breathy chuckle, feeling it fall across her stomach, was reassuring.

"It's… alright, just… give me a moment."

"Are you…"

"I'm close," he answered quickly, really wishing they could change the subject. Damn, but this was embarrassing. "But I don't want to cum, not just yet. I'd like for you to cum again, or at least get you close, and see if we can't time it just right."

"Just right? You mean, both of us at the same exact moment? That would be kind of… difficult… wouldn't it?"

"I do love a challenge." He dropped his hand away, the immediate danger passing, though he was still very much aroused. "What do you say? Are you up for it?"

She looked at him. He was lying on his side, a leg cocked over one of hers, his hand not too far away from his member, the other bent to hold his head above hers. She reached up a hand and, in answer, pulled his face down for another kiss.

It was strange. She thought she could almost taste herself on him, or at least should be able to, but all she could really taste was him. Strong. Loyal. Protective. Masculine. Leather and steel and horses. And, as ever, far in the background and tickling teasingly at her senses, the very subtle scent of lilacs.

In a word: Cullen.

It was hard to tell, if she was still damp from earlier, or if that was new wetness pooling between her legs. Briefly she wondered if she could become dehydrated, from all the damp and the sweat. And she was sweaty, had been since she'd recovered from her, erm, spell. But so was Cullen, she noted his skin slick with it as she ran her fingers over his biceps. She could feel scars pass beneath her caress, some thicker, some barely visible, but her sensitive touch could discern them. She thought about those scars, and her own, and imagined what they must look like, two scarred lovers, their stripes running counter to each other. And she wondered if her touch, featherlight, disappeared whenever she passed over one of his marks, just as his touch would fade whenever he passed over her own.

"Peredura," he breathed, and she almost gave a guilty starting, fearing he must have somehow known what she was thinking. But he didn't scold her, didn't reprimand her for her wayward mind. Instead he grabbed one of her hands, brought it to his lips and kissed the palm, panting afterwards. "Pere…"

He must be getting close again, she deduced, and her caress was not helping matters. Impishly, rebelliously, the impulse came into her mind to continue, to push him over that edge, to make him cum as he had made her cum, but she squelched the idea, far more intrigued with his suggestion that not only could she cum again, but that they could time it to cum together. She held herself still, didn't even let her other hand play with the curls of his hair, and waited until it was 'safe' to continue.

He opened his eyes, not sure when he had closed them, to find her watching him this time, watching and gauging and waiting. Well, that was a bit of a change, her following his lead, rather than he always having to adjust the plan to follow her spontaneous changing of her mind. Like the time she jumped off the tower at Adamant to fall into the Fade. Or even all the way back at Haven when she'd stayed behind to fire the catapults. Maker's breath, but this woman could cause him stress.

He kissed her hand again, entwined within his, and suggested, "Let's try this."

He brought their joined hand down, pressing her palm against her skin. Slowly, he moved their touch around, stroking her neck, her collarbone, tracing her sternum, cupping around a breast. Her breath caught, her eyes flashed, her cheeks deepened, and a fresh flash of heat poured out to fall against his thigh pressed up tight against her. He shifted his leg a little, and in answer she started moving, rubbing herself, that particular part of her, up and down his muscular leg.

That gave him another idea. If having her touch her own breast was making her this horny, what would it do to her if he made her touch herself down there? He didn't notice the smirk on his lips, how it shifted into something predatory and anticipatory, while his hand moved hers lower. And lower. And lower.

Peredura moaned, fearing she knew what he was doing, and though he hardly held her captive, she didn't even attempt to pull her hand away. Not knowing if she wanted to do it, not knowing a reason she shouldn't do it, she passively obeyed his bidding and dropped her fingers, side-by-side with his, to her own sex.

She gasped when she felt it, when she touched it, her self, her core, amazed that something so small could be so sensitive, could control her so effortlessly, could unmake her so completely. He moved their fingers around, back and forth, up and down, circling and light and hard and fast and slow and…

She moaned, heavily, throatily, her eyes closing and her head tilting back as far as her neck would bend. Cullen dropped his lips to her neck, savoring the pulse throbbing forcefully there, while his fingers eased back. Not that he didn't continue to touch her, to move with her, but he allowed her to set the pace, the pressure, the pattern, storing every bit of information in the back of his mind for later study and reflection. He heard every gasp from her lips, felt every shudder rake her body, tasted every drop of sweat, saw every flushed patch of her skin, smelled every drop of pheromones from her pores. It didn't take long, not long at all, before she pushed his hand away and made a grab for his hips.

"Cullen!"

He didn't wait for a second invitation. Easily he rolled himself in between her legs, sensing where she was the hottest, the wettest, and aiming himself unerringly for the exact center. Still he held his cock just outside her lips, his tip barely stretching the swollen folds, coming between them but not yet inside her. He took a moment to look down at her, at his love, at his precious Pere. Her cheeks were bright red with passion, her eyes glazed and hungry. Her long brown hair was strewn across the pillow, spreading out around her like a cloud. He ran his fingers through it, savoring the feel, long and lean, like strands of silk. He took a lock of it, weaving it back and forth across his fingers, holding her head in gentle captivity. As if in answer, one of her hands was at the back of his neck, encouraging him down towards her. The other hand, still damp, roguishly worked its way into his hair. The minx.

It didn't matter, though, as he had run out of time. He fell onto her, into her, claiming her mouth in a kiss while he claimed her honor for his own possessing. One of her legs cocked around his hips, holding him inside, while the other wrapped around his leg and pinned him to the bed. She needn't have bothered, however; he wasn't going anywhere.

Maker, but it was bliss. Pure pleasure. A heaven on earth. He pushed in slowly, as slowly as he could manage at any rate, and felt her entrance, so tight, so thick, allow him passage almost without resistance. And inside… Maker… the heat, the velvet smoothness, the wetness… He could feel her lips, heavy with passion, clamping down on him, around him, as he pulled almost all the way out before returning to that glorious palace. The thrust elicited a moan from her, guttural and primal and filling his lungs with her. He fisted the bedclothes, feeling himself build up too soon, too fast, thinking she'd need a little more time, wanting himself a little more time to slide back and forth, to enjoy the feel of her around him.

He fought, he fought with every ounce of his being. Sweat coated his body from scalp to toes, making their movements that much less frictionless. His breath staggered in and out of his lungs, part through his nose and part through his mouth to force its way inside her lungs. Oh, Maker, this wasn't going to take long, but he didn't want to give in. He didn't want to lose control. He wanted to savor this and her and continue.

And he feared that moment, that loss of control, what it would feel like to not be able to help himself… and what it would bring.

Something must have been working right for her, too, because Peredura suddenly gave that funny little hiccough, that tense hesitation, and he knew she was about to cum. He groaned, the sound full of a strange mixture of frustration and anticipation, knowing the end was nigh. The next moment she came. Just like before, she convulsed, almost violently, arching her back and cocking her hips and giving him an angle that allowed him just that much more depth, as if she needed him to impale her, to fill her, to complete her. His breath ceased as he planted himself balls deep while she pulsed and throbbed around his cock.

She was making noises, too, he was fairly sure of it, little grunts and pants as she started to gyrate out of control. But he was making his own sound, a single sound, long and low, bursting out of his chest and exploding past his throat. It was a sound somewhere between a moaning triumph and a screaming sigh, and overwhelming with joyous pain, "Aaaaaaahhhhh," as he fired his first shot.

Suddenly he had to move, unable to keep himself so deep, needing the friction, needing to feel her pulsing around his cock, milking him for every last drop. Each one of his thrusts was punctuated by an exhale, a soft "heeeee" sound, as he arrhythmically pounded and poured himself inside her. Their movements were syncopated, at odds and yet in concert, grinding and grabbing and mixing and messing.

And all of it… all so glorious.

When the last drop was wrung out of him, and he felt exactly like that, he gave up his claim on her mouth and fell to the bed, still sprawled over half her body, clutching at her hair and at the bedclothes. He was spent, in more ways than one. It had been a long day, after all, at the end of a long and stressful week, full of days of hard travel, not to mention last night spent in edgy vigilance—he was exhausted. Muscles trembling, limbs lax and half-unresponsive, he barely managed to pull his thick and heavy body off of hers before he suffocated her.

Peredura was almost out of it again, lying still on the bed, her eyes nearly closed in tiny slits that were framed by her long lashes curving above and below. Nearly her entire body was flushed and glistening with their mingled sweat, one hand flung off to her side, the fingers slightly curved. Her heavy bosom rose and fell with labored breaths, those half pants-half sighs that spoke mightily of her ecstasy, her nipples still tight and aroused. Seeing the aftermath of their lovemaking, seeing what he could reduce her to, made his own unmanning seem a little less embarrassing. Besides…

There was a pant, like a little laugh, puffing out of his chest, rocking his shoulders, and drying her sweaty skin. It was something relaxed and sated, maybe even directed a little bit at himself because… despite all his efforts, despite his fears, despite his intentions—he had lost control.

And he liked it.

"Pere."

She was barely aware, her body continuing to thrum with past passion, the sound of his voice barely able to penetrate her thoughts. This time… so much better than that first time… the two of them… so close… She smiled, feeling lazy and sated and more than a little like closing her eyes for just a moment. But his nearness kept her with her senses, his musky sweat filling her nostrils and soaking into her pores, his breath hot and light across the vein in her neck.

"Peredura?"

She felt his lips against her skin, starting again in that sensitive bit, right in the corner of her neck. She shrugged her shoulder, but hadn't the strength to dislodge him. He kept kissing her, soft and light, and he seemed intent on covering her entire body in those little puffs of love.

Until he reached her navel. Impulsively he flicked his tongue out, quick and light, flittering back and forth so fast that it tickled. She came to fully then, her hands going to her stomach trying to both cover herself and push him away at the same time, and ending up only flailing ineffectively.

"Cullen!" she scolded, bunching her abdominals and trying to roll to her side. He wouldn't let her go, one hand on her arm and the other across her hips. Though he did leave off kissing her, and even managed to get most of the silly, boyish grin off his face before he lifted his head up to look at her.

"Yes, my love?"

"What… what are you doing?" she panted, from the laughter, from the sudden exertion, and in part from the lingering satiation of her climax. She looked down at him with narrowed eyes, full of suspicion and distrust.

"I think you can figure that out by now."

She blinked at him, her lips parted alluringly. He lunged upwards to give them a kiss, easing her back against the pillows.

"A-a-ah-again?" she stuttered when she finally managed to pull herself free for a gasping breath.

"Why not?" he pressed, sensing her hesitation, her indecision. He straddled her, his knees at her hips, his hands next to her shoulders, and stared down at her in a very dominating manner. Yet the next words he spoke were so tender, so compassionate, and overflowing with heartbreaking truth. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she answered, her fingers burrowing into the soft curls at the base of his head and pulling him down for another kiss.


End file.
